
Glass. 
Book- 





^2. 






THE BOOK 



posrc 




IRISH BALLADS. 



EDITED BY 



D.F 



M C CARTHY. 



NEW YOEK : 
FELIX E. O'EOUEKE, 

9 BARCLAY STREET. 

1873. 



Tv\ 



tVvi* 



By Transfer 

P.O. Dep*» 
Mar 23 06 



SAMUEL FERGUSON, Esq., M.R.I.A, 



B X EE TSTKR- A I-LAW, 



I H S COLLECTION 



IRISH BALLADS,. 

MBICHED BY BO MANY BEAUTIFUL EFFORTS W 
HIS GENIUS, 

«9 EESPECTFULLT INSCRIEET) 



THE EDITOR- 



CONTENTS. 



Dedication, 
Index op Acthobs, ■ 
Apvertissxent 

iHTKODCCTION, 



BALLADS ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE FAIRY MYTHOLOGY AND 
TRADITIONS OF HtELAND. 



Xamet tf Saaad*. 


Attthori Kama. 


Pag* 


A Fairy Tale, 


Thomas Parnell, 


■ 25 


the Fairy Well of Lagnanay, 


Samuel Ferguson, 


- 31 


Hy-Brasail, 


Gerald Griffin, 


- 34 


The Mountain Sprite, 


Thomas Moore, 


- 35 


The City of Gold, - 


Anonymous, - 


- 36 


Thubber-na-Shie; or, The Fairy Well, - 


James 'feeling, 


- 37 


Fairy Revels, ... 


Anonymous, 


- 40 


The Enchanted Island, 


Anonymous, 


- 41 


The Fairy Rath of Loch Innin, 


Alexander Henry, 


- 42 


The Phantom City, 


Gerald Griffin, 


- 43 


TU magic Weil, - 


W.M. Downs, 


- 49 


Arranmore, ... 


Thomas Moore, 


56 


The Island of Atlantis, 


Rev. G. Croly, 


- 67 


The Haunted Spring, 


Samuel Lover, 


- 59 


Alice and Lna, 


D. F. M'Carthy, 


- 80 



BALLADS ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE SUPERSTITIONS AND 
CUSTOMS OF IRELAND. 



Th Fetch, 


• John Banim, 


- 75 


The Banskee, 


- Anonymous, 


- 76 


Cusheen Loo, 


• J.J. Callanan, 


- 78 


The Burial, 


Rev. J. Wills, 


- 78 


The O-Neill, 


Anonymous, 


- 80 


The Wake of the Absent, 


- Gerald Griffin, 


- 8* 


Kathleens Fetch, 


- Anonymous, 


- 85 


The Doom of the Mirror, 


- B. Simmons, 


- 87 


The Faiiy Nurse, - 


- Edward Walsh 


- 91 


Earl Desmond and the Banah 


ee, - Anonymous, 


- 93 


The Bridal Wake, 


- Gerald Griffin, - 


• 95 


TheCaoine, 


Croft-on Croker, 


- M 



CONTENTS. 



HISTORICAL BALLADS. 



Names of Songs. 


A.D. 


Author*' Names. Pap. 


The Saga of King Olaf and hla 






Dog, 


1000 


Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, 97 


Lamentation of Mac Liag for 






Kincora, 


1015 


James Clarence Mangan. 101 


The Death of King Magnus 






Barefoot, - 


1102 


Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, 104 


Battle of Cnoctuadh, - 


1189 


- 107 


A Vision of Connaught in the 






18th Century, 


1224 


James Clarence Mangan, 114 


Battle of Credran, 


1257 


Edward Walsh, - 118 


Battle of Ardnocker, - 


1S28 


* » • - 119 


Grainne Maol and Elizabeth, 


1575 


• * * - 123 


The Death of Schomberg, 


1690 


Digby Pilot Starkey, - 127 


The Battle of the Boyne, 


1690 


Colonel Blacker, - 129 



DESCRIPTIVE BALLADS. 



Tlmoleague, 


- Samuel Ferguson. 


- 1S» 


Arondhu, 


- J. J. Callanai, 


- 136 


The Rock of Cashel, 


- Rev. Dr. Murray, 


- 187 


Loch Ina, 


- Anonymous, 


- 140 


The Returned Exile, 


- B. Simmons, 


- 141 


Gleufinishk, 


- Joseph O'Leary, 


- 143 


The Mountain Fern, 


- » » * 


- 145 


Adare, 


- Geraia Griffin, - 


• 146 


The Vale of Shanganah, 


- D. F. M'Carthy, 


- 148 


Deirdre's Farewell to Alba, - 


- Samuel Ferguson, 


- 150 


A Sigh for Knockmany, 


- William Carleton, 


- 151 


Tlpperary, 


- Fionnuala, 


- 152 



LEGENDARY BALLADS. 



,The Welshmen cf Tirawley, 
"The Outlaw of Loch Lene, 
Ailleen the Huntress, 
Shane Dyma's Daughter, 
O'Sullivan Beare, - 
The Robber of Ferney, 
O'Donoghue's Bride, 
The Virgin Mary's Bank, 



Samuel Ferguson, - 154 

J. J. Callanan, • - 165 

Edward Walsh, - - 166 

Anonymous, - - 169 
Thomas D'Arcy M'Gee, • 173 

Anonymous, • - 176 

Anonymous, - - 178 

J. J. Callanan, . - 179 



BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



fames of Songs. 


Autfiors" Nam**. 


Part. 


The Partes from Slcmish, - 


- Samuel Ferguson, 


- 181 


Ailleen, - 


- J. Banim, 


- 183 


Eman-ac-Knuck to Eva, 


- J. B. Clarke, - 


- 184 


O'Donnell and the Fair Fitzgerald, 


- Charles Gavan Duffy 


- 186 


The Coolun, 


- Samuel Ferguson, 


- 188 


Brfehidin Ran Mo Stor, 


- Edward Walsh, 


- 190 


The Lamentation of Felix M'Carthy, 


- J. J. Callanan, - 


- 191 


Pastheen Fion, 


- Samuel Ferguson, 


- 194 


The Patriot's Bride, 


- Charles Gavan Duffy, 


. 196 


The Coulin, 


- Caroll Malone, - 


- 199 


Mauryeen, 


- Anonymous, 


- 201 


A Lament, 


- D. F. M'Carthy, 


- 202 


Young Kate of Kilcammer, - 


- Anonymous, 


305 


The Mountain Dew, 


- Samuel Lover, - 


- 306 



POLITICAL BALLADS. 



The Muster of the North, 

Dark Rosaleen, 

Drimin Dhu, 

Shane Bwee, 

The Voice of Labour, 

The Dream of John M'Donnell, 

The Wexford Insurgent, 

The Orangeman's Wife, 

The Irish Chiefs, - 



The Saint's Tenant, 

Lament, for the &.ns of Usnach, 

The Penal Days, - 

Caro'an and Bridget Cruise, 

The Streams, 

Irish Mary, 

The Last Friends, 

The Irish Exiles. - 



Charles Gavan Duffy, 


- SOT 


James C. Mangan, 


ill 


Samuel Ferguson, 


21* 


James C. Mangan, 


- C ■ 


Charles Gavan "Duffy. 


- 216 


James C Mangan, 


- 219 


Anonymous, 


- 222 


Caroll Malone, 


- 223 


Charles Gavan Duffy 


- 225 


ALLADS. 
Thomas Furlong, 


- 328 


Samuel Ferguson, 


- 236 


Anonymous, 


- 239 


Samuel Lover, - 


- 243 


Mrs. Downing, - 


. 2-1* 


J. Banim, 


- 246 


Frances Browne, 


- 247 


Martin MacDennott 


- 249 



INDEX OF AUTHORS. 



AsioNTMOTrs: 








The City of Gold 


36 


Callanan, J. J. 




Fairy Revels 


40 


Cosheen Loo 


78 


The Enchanted Island 


41 


Avondhu 


136 


The Banshee 


76 


The Outlaw of Loch Lena 


166 


The O'Neill . 


80 


The Virgin Mary's Bank 


179 


Kathleen's Fetch . 


85 


TheLamentation of Felix 




Earl Desmond and th 


i 


M'Carthy . 


191 


Banshee 


92 


Carleton, William: 




Battle of Cnoctnadh 


107 


A Sigh for Knockiaany 


151 


Battle of Ardnocker 


11!) 


Clarke, J. B. : 




Grainne Maol and Eliza 




Eman-ac-Knuck to Era 


1S4 


beth . 


122 


Crokek, Crofton: 




Loch Ina 


140 


The Caoine 


96 


The Mountain Fern 


145 


Crolt, Rev. George: 




Tipperary 


152 


The island of Auar.fi . 


57 


Shane Dymas' Daughte? 


• 169 






The Robber of Ferney 


176 






O'Dohoghue's Bride 


178 






Mauiyeen 


201 


it 




Kate of Kilcummer 


205 






The Wexford Insurgent 


222 






The Penal Days 


2sa 


Downes, W. M : 




B 




The Magic Well . 
Downing, Mrs.: 


43 


tjitnw, John: 




The Streams . 


3ii 


Tlie Fetch 


75 


Dufft, Charles Gavan: 




Ailleen . 


183 


O'Donnell and tlia Fair 




Irish Mary . 


246 


Fitzgerald 


18 


Blacker, Colonel: 




The Patriot's Bride 


196 


The Battle of the Boyne 


129 


The Muster of the North 


2H7 


Browne, Frances: 




The Voice of Labour . 


21« 


The Last friends 


247 


The Irish Chiefs . 


221 



INDEX OF AUTHORS 



• F Pagt. 

Fbeguson, Samuel, M.R.I.A. 

TheFairyWellofLagnan 31 

Timoleague . . 133 

Deirdre's Farewell toAlba 150 
The Welshmen of Tiraw- 

ley . . 164 

ThePartingfromSlemish 181 

The Coolun . . 188 

Pastheen Fion . 194 

Drimin Dhu . . 214 
Lament for the Sons of 

Usnach . . 236 

Furlong, Thomas: 

The Saint's Tenant . 228 



©biffin, Gerald: 

Hy Brasail . 34 

The Phantom City . 48 

The Wake of the Absent 84 

The Bridal Wake . 95 

Adare . . 146 

H 

Henry, Alexander. 

The Fairy Rath of Loch 
Innin . . 42 



Lover, Samuel: 

The Haunted Spring 59 

The Mountain Dew . 206 
Carolan and Bridget 
Cruise . . 243 



JPCakthy, D. F.: 

Alice and Una 

The Vale of Shanganah 

A Lament 
MacDekmott, Martin: 

The Irish Exiles . 
M'Gee, Thomas D'Arcy: 

The Saga of King Olaf 
and his Dog 

The Death of King Mag- 
nus Barefoot ~. . 

O'Sullivan Beare 



Malonh, Carroll: 

The Coulin 

The Orangeman's Wife . 
Mangan, James Clarence: 

Lamentation of MacLiag 
for Kincora 

A Vision of Connanght 
in the 13th Century . 

Dark Rosaleen 

Shane Bwee . 

The Dream of John Mac 
Donnell 
Moore, Thomas: 

The Mountain Sprite . 

Arranmore 
Murray, Rev. Dr. : 

The Rock of Cashel 



O'Lbary, Joseph: 
Glenflnishk 



Pabnell, Thomas: 
A Fairy Tale - 



The Doom of the Mirror 87 

The Returned Exile 142 
Stabkey, Digby Pilot- 

The Death of Schomberg 127 



Tbkling, James: 

Thubber-na-Shie, or the 
Fairy Well . 



Walsh, Edward 

The Fairy Nurse , 91 

Battle of Credran . 116 

Ailleen the Huciress 166 
Brighidin Ban-mo- Stor 190 

Wills, Ret. J.: 

The Burial . . 7B 



ADVERTISEMENT. 



"The Book of Irish Ballads" is intended as a sequel to "Tw 
Ballad Poetry op Ireland." I trust it will not be found unworthy 
of taking its place beside that volume. It has been my most anxious 
wish that this collection of native ballads should be altogether divested 
of a sectarian or party complexion, and that every class of which The 
Irish Nation is composed should be poetically represented therein. 
Should there be, in those ballads which admit of the introduction of 
religious or political sentiment, a preponderance of one kind over 
another, the inequality is to be attributed to the abundance or scan- 
tiness of my materials— and not to any prejudice or bias of my own. 
I trust that the classification which I have made will be found correct 
and useful. In all but the Historical Ballads, I have endeavoured to 
arrange them with as much variety as possible; in that division thejr 
are placed in chronological order. As I have stated at the conclusion 
of my introduction, I have endeavoured to make this volume as original 
as possible; and I have therefore avoided, as much as I could, collec- 
tions which had been previously made. It is for this reason that I 
have not included any of the poems of my lamented and revered 
friend, Thomas Davis,— forming, as the public are aware, a aeparate 
volume of " The Library of Ireland." 



INTRODUCTION. 



It has been said, by a well-known authority, that th« 
Ballads of a people are more influential than their laws, 
and perhaps he might have added, more valuable than 
their annals. The most comprehensive survey that the 
eye of genius can take in — the most ponderous folio that 
ever owed its existence to the united efforts of industry 
and dulness, must fail in giving a perfect idea of the 
character of a people, unless it be based upon the reve- 
lations they themselves have made, or the confessions 
they have uttered. Without these, history is indeed 
but the " old almanack" that an illustrious countryman 
of ours* has called it; a mere dry dead catalogue of 
dates and facts, useless either as a picture of the past, 
or as a lesson for the future. A people of passionate 
impulses, of throbbing affections, of dauntless heroism, 
will invariably not only have done things worthy of 
being recorded, but will also have recorded them. 
Myriads of human beings cannot be moved about noise- 
lessly, like an army of shadows. The sullen sound 0/ 
their advancing will be heard afar off; and those who 
see them not, will listen to the shrill music of their fifes 
and the merry echoes of their bugles. The great heav- 
ings of a people's heart, and, from time to time, the 
necessary purifying of the social atmosphere, will make 
themselves felt and heard and seen, so that all men mat 

• Lord Plunkett 



12 WTBODtTCTIOW. 

take cognizance thereof — as the mighty waves of the 
roused ocean dash against each other with a war-cry, 
or as the electric spirit proclaimeth its salutary mission 
in a voice of thunder. 

In almost all countries the Ballad has heen the in- 
strument by which the triumphs, the joys, or the sor- 
rows of a people have been proclaimed. 

Its uses have been numerous; its capabilities are 
boundless. 

Long ago, in the fresh youth and enthusiasm of the 
world, how harmonious were its modulations — its reve- 
lations how divine ! Then it sang of gods and heroes, 
and the milk-expanded warm breasts of the beneficent 
mother ; and the gift of Ceres, aud the olive of Minerva, 
and the purple clusters of the son of Semele. Then 
it was, that, " standing on a pleasant lea," men could 

" Have glimpses that would make them less forlorn, 
Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea, 
Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn."» 

Then it was that the earth was truly peopled. Neither 
was the air void, nor were the waters desolate. Shapes 
o? beauty — 

"Sch8ne 

wandered familiarly with men ; and nymphs and shep- 
herds, and fauns and hamadryads, danced together 
beneath the eye of Jove himself in the shadow of blue 
Olympus, or beside the Venus-bearing foam of the 
sparkling isle-surrounding Hellespont. Had not poetry 
preserved this memory of the golden age — had not 
Hesiod and Homer built their beautiful and majestic 
structures on the original ballads that were probably 
floating among the people, — how dark, and gloomy, 
and indistinct would be our ideas of the old world: 
What visions that have been delighting the eye of man 
these three thousand years would have been lost : Of 

• Wordsworth. 
♦ " Lovely beings from the Fable land."— Schiixisk. 



INTRODUCTION. 13 

what examples of devotion, of heroism, of love of 
country, would the sincere and zealous of all nations 
have been deprived. 

Poetry, after all, is the only indestructible gift that 
genius can bequeath to the world. The shield of 
Achilles, though the work of a god, has disappeared 
from the world, but the bounding words in which it has 
been described are immortal. This very shield itself, 
as Schiller remarks, is the type of the poet's mind, and 
of all true poetry.* On it, we are told, were figured, 
not only representations of cities, implements of hus- 
bandry, corn fields and vineyards, sheep and oxen, and 
other things adapted to particular localities, and which 
may vary under different circumstances, — but the great 
fabricator had also introduced representations of the un- 
changeable wonders of creation, which are the same 
yesterday, to-day, and to-morrow, — 

** For in it he represented earth — in it the sea and sky— 

In it the never wearied sun — the moon, exactly round; 

And all those stars -with which the brows of ample heaven are crown'd!'' f 

Thus a genuine poem must be true not only to the cha- 
racter of the age in which it is written, but in accord- 
ance with the principles of nature and of truth, which 
are unchangeable. 

The Latins, a people very different from the Greeks, 
added but little to the beauty of the mythology they 
borrowed, or to the literature they imitated. With the 
exception of Egeria, — "a beautiful thought, and softly 
bodied forth," — there are none of their native divinities 
that interest us much. Their early history, so full of 
stern, unbending justice, self-denial and heroism, is 

• " As the god and the genius, whose birth was of Jove, 
In one type all creation reveal'd, 
When the ocean, the earth, and the star-realm above, 

Lay compress'd in the orb of a shield,— 
So the poet, a shape and a type of the All, 
From a sound, that is mute in a moment, can calll" 
[From " The Four Ages of the World ."— Bulwer's Translation 
\ Iliad. Book xriii., Chapman's Translation. 



14 INTRODUCTION. 

considered either allegorical or wholly fabulous, and 
founded upon the memory of rude ballads, which had 
ceased to exist even at the time when their earliest annals 
were written.* In their latter years, the lyrics of 
Horace redeemed the character of their literature from 
the reproach of servile imitation ; and some of these, 
and a few of the shorter tales of Ovid, are the only 
poems they have left us partaking, however remotely, 
of the character of Ballad .Poetry, but much closer to 

the modern than to the ancient Homeric standard 

After this there is no trace of the ballad spirit in Latin 
literature. Its writers became more servile and less 
vigorous in their imitation, until, in the reign of Theo- 
dosius, the race of old Roman poets became extinct in 
the person of Claudian. 

While this lamentable but natural decline of intellec- 
tual vigour, consequent upon the effeminacy and ex- 
cesses of Imperial Rome, was developing itself along 
the sunny shores of the Mediterranean, a new order of 
things was maturing amid the mountains and forests of 
northern and western Europe. The human mind — which, 
in these remote regions, like their wintry seas, had 
been perpetually frozen — now began to melt and dissolve 
into brilliancy and activity. Those who lived upon the 
stormy shores of the ocean followed the sea-kings in 
their adventurous expeditions among the islands. Those 
who lived amid the dark forests of the interior, marched 
in search of brighter skies and more fruitful plains, 
towards the genial regions of the south. And it was in 
these expeditions, particularly the former, that the 
Bards of the Sea Kings gave the Ballad its modern shape 
and character. The sagas composed by them, to com- 
memorate the triumphs or to bewail the disasters of 
their chiefs in "Icy Ierne" — the Scottish islands and 
Iceland— strongly resemble, both in structure and de- 
sign, the more vigorous of the modern ballads. A new 

* Mr. Macanlay's " Lays and Legends of Ancient Rome" arefoundea 
on this supposition. I am glad that I have this opportunity of express- 
ing my admiration of these splendid and vigorous ballads, and of thl 
Other writings of their g"**d and accomplished author. 



INTRODUCTION. 15 

race of divinities and a new race of heroes superseded 
the old classical models. Thor and Wodin succeeded 
Mars and the son of Priam, and, like the songs in which 
they were commemorated, what they lost in interest and 
beauty was compensated for by vigour and durability. 
The black and chilly waters of the northern seas were not 
a fitting birth-place for the Aphrodisian Venus ; instead 
of the queen of love and gladness, the mighty kraken 
and the winged dragon were their children, who in 
many a stormy ballad have played their fearful and im- 
portant parts ever since. 

Again, in the sunny South, but not in exhausted Italy, 
did the harmony of song arise. Spain, that magnificent 
country, combining together the grandeur and the 
beauty of the North and the South — the bold mountains 
and caverned shores of Norway, and the enchanting 
graces of Parthenope — had already, even in the most palmy 
days of Latin literature, contributed some of the most 
boasted names to the catalogue of Eoman writers. 
Lucan, who sang of Pharsalia; the two Senecas, the 
younger of whom is the only Koman tragic writer who 
has come down to us ; and Martial, whose wit and licen- 
tiousness at once enlivened and disgraced the reign of 
Domitian — were natives of Spain ; the three former of 
Carduba, and the latter of Arragon. But it was in the 
eighth century that the splendour and interest of Spanish 
history commences. In that century the Saracens con- 
quered Spain, and introduced into it, along with a 
knowledge of letters and the sciences superior to what 
was possessed by any other people then in Europe, all 
the splendour and imagination of Oriental poetry. 
About the end of the twelfth century the celebrated 
poem of "TheCid" was written, commemorating the 
valorous exploits and adventures of the hero, Eodrigo 
de Bivar. Since that period, Spain has been pre-emi- 
nently rich in ballad poetry. Its grand, sonorous 
language, so musical as to have earned the epithet 
of " the poetry of speech," has been employed to good 
purpose ; and nobler ballads than the Spanish, in praise 
of heroism, of virtue, of piety, and of love, the world 
has never seen. The capabilities of the Ballad have 



16 INTRODUCTION. 

there been put to the severest test. Those of the heroic 
class, which detail the struggles of the old Spaniards 
with the Goth or with the Saracen, like Chevy Chase, 
" stir the heart as if with a trumpet;" while the sigh- 
ing of a summer breeze in Andalusia is not more soft 
and gentle than the harmony of the passionate ballads 
that to this clay are sung beneath the curtained balconies 
of moon-lit Sevilla. Garcilasso, Lope, Calderon, Cer- 
vantes — great names are these, of which Spain and human 
nature may be proud. 

The Ballad Poetry of England and Scotland has been 
very copious and very excellent for several centuries ; 
and the Ballads of each contrast not so much in merit 
as in character. In the Song, which may be called the 
very essence and spirit of the Ballad, or the musical ut- 
terance of feeling and passion in the very paroxysm of 
their presence, Scotland has immeasurably the supe- 
riority. In that Pythian moment, when the mind is in 
its state of utmost activity, and the dominancy of passion 
is supreme, the concentrated expression of both is Song ; 
and its appearance and the frequency of its return de- 
pend principally upon the character and constitution of 
each people. The Ballad, on the contrary, requires not 
the same degree of excitement, — Narrative, which is 
almost an essential portion of it, being incompatible 
with that mental and sensuous excitation which gives 
both to the song, and which is but momentary in its 
abiding. And thus the different success of the two, in 
the different nations of Europe, is as marked and dis- 
tinct as the races of which they are composed. In Italy 
and France, in Scotland and Ireland — all nations sprung 
from the one family — the Song has been cultivated with 
the greatest success; whereas in the northern nations, 
in Germany and in England, the natural expression of 
the poetical instincts of the people has been through the 
calmer and more lengthened channel of the Ballad 
Spain has succeeded better in both, perhaps, than any 
other nation ; — the dominion of the Goths leaving aftei 
it much of the solemnity of thought and feeling of ttoe 
Germanic races, — while the lyric capabilities of the 
language are such as to remler the expression of 



MTRODCCTIOM. 17 

high-wrought sentiment easy and obvious. In England 
the ballads are generally of a quiet and pastoral beauty — 
^iite in character with the rural and sylvan charms of 
its scenery. The Eobin Hood ballads, which so delight 
us in boyhood, and which give us visions of " Merry 
Sherwood" — 

In summer time, -when leaves grow green, 
And birds sing on every tree, 

that we never forget, and which are only replaced by the 
still more exquisite glimpses that Shakspeare opens to 
us of The Forest of Ardennes — all partake of this 
character — in them there is many a merry trick played, 
and many a mad adventure— 

" Of brave little Jonn, 

Of Fryer Tuck and Will Scarlet, 

Loxley, and Maid Marion." 

Bold Robin and Allin-a-Dale, or the " Jolly Tanner," 
Arthur-a-Bland, have many a good contest with stout 
quarter-staffs — right merry to read and well described — 
but the writers scarcely ever forget, even for a few 
stanzas, the beauty of the summer woods where their 
heroes dwell, and satisfy their own hearts, and will 
delight their readers for all time, by this frequent re- 
currence to the unchangeable and everlasting delights 
of nature. Indeed, this continued reference to the 
beauty of the external world, which we meet in the old 
English poets, particularly in Chaucer (whose pictures 
of many a "May Morn-ing" are still so fresh after many 
years), may be the reason that they are read even now, 
notwithstanding the difficulties of an antiquated and 
obsolete dialect. 

The Scotch Ballads are less numerous and less varied 
than the English ; but in point of perfection — in the 
particular class, at least, of sentiment and the affec- 
tions -they are not only superior to these, but, as I 
humbly conceive, to any Ballads that have ever been 
written. Their simplicity never degenerates into bold 
commonplace, nor their homeliness into vulgarity ; ans 1 
they are as far removed from maudlin sentimentality iu 
' their passionate heartiness, as from frigid conceit. «»••? 



18 INTRODUCTION. 

prettinesses in their illustrations. The very heart of 
the Scottish people hounds in their ballads; we can 
listen to the ever-varying changes of its pulsation — now- 
heavy and slow as the tides of Loch Lomond — now rapid 
«nd bounding as the billows of the Clyde. The "bonny 
blue e'en" of the lassie glance through her waving hair 
like a stream through the overhanging heather; and her 
arch reply or her merry laugh rings on our ears like the 
song of the mavis or the throssil. The ballads of a few 
of her humblest children have rendered Scotland clear 
to the hearts of all whose affections are worth possess- 
ing: they have converted (to the mind at least) her 
desolate heaths and barren mountains, into smiling 
gardens and olive-bearing hills ; and have constructed 
among mists and storms, and the howling of the lashed 
Northern Ocean, an Arcadia dearer than that of yore, 
where "the shepherd's boy piped as though he should 
never be old."* Although my space here is very limited, 
I cannot refrain from presenting, to some of my readers 
perhaps for the first time, a specimen of these Ballads, 
taken almost at random, in support of what I have as- 
serted, and as a model (in connexion with those written 
in a kindred spirit by some of our own countrymen — 
Griffin, Callanan, Davis, and Mr. Ferguson) of thii 
most exquisite department of Ballad Poetry : — 

MARY OF CASTLE-CARY.f 

Saw ye my wee thing, saw ye my ain thing, 

Saw ye my true love down on yon lea — 
Crossed she the meadow yestreen at the gloaming, 

Sought she the burnie where flowers the haw-tree? 
Her hair it is lint-white, her skin it is milk-white, 

Dark is the blue of her soft rolling e'e; 
Red, red are her ripe lips, and sweeter than roses, 

Where could my wee thing wander frae me? 

I saw nae your wee thing, I saw nae your ain thing, 

Nor saw I your true love down by yon lea; 
Bnt I met my bonnie tiling late in the gloaming, 

Down by the burnie where flowers the haw-tree. 

-Sir Philip Sidney. 

* wrrtten by Hector MacNeill; 



INTRODUCTION. IS 

Her hair it was lint-white, her skin it was milk-whifce, 

Dark was the blue of her soft rolling e'e; 
Red, red were her ripe lips, and sweeter than rosea, 

Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me. 

It waa nae my wee thing, it was nae my ain thing, 

It was nae my true love ye met by the tree; 
Proud is her leal heart, and modest her nature, 

She never loved ony till ance she loved me. 
Her name it is llary — she's frae Castle-Cary, 

Aft has she sat when a bairn on my knee; 
Fair as your face is, were't fifty times fairer, 

Young bragger, she ne'er wad gie kisses to thee. 

It was then your Mary; she's frae Castle-Cary 

It was then your true love I met by the tree 
Proud as her heart is, and modest her nature, 

Sweet were the kisses that she gave to me. 
Sair gloomed his dark brow, blood red his cheek grew, 

Wild flashed the fire frae his red rolling e'e ; 
Te'se rue sair this morning your boasts and your scorning, 

Defend ye, fause traitor, fu' loudly ye lie. 

Away wi' beguiling, cried the youth, smiling — 

Off went the bonnet, the lint white locks flee. 
The belted plaid fa'ing, her white bosom shawing, 

Fair stood the loved maid wi' the dark rolling e'e. 
Is it my wee thing, is it my ain thing, 

le it my true love here that I see ' 
Jamie, forgi'e me, your heart's constant to me, 

I'll never mair wander, dear laddie, frae thee. 

The most modern, and perhaps the most important 
class of ballads, remains to be alluded to — namely, the 
German. The sudden awakening, the rapid maturity, 
the enduring vitality, and the acknowledged supremacy 
of German literature, are facts as wonderful as they are 
consoling. Little better than a century ago, with the 
exception of a few theological and historical writers, the 
Germans were more destitute of a native literature, and 
were more dependant on other countries, particularly 
France, for intellectual supplies, than we have ever been ; 
and now their works crowd the book markets of the 
■world. Little more than a century ago a great German 
prince, called Frederick, a philosopher and a patron ol 
philosophers, pronounced his native language but fit for 



20 INTRODUCTION. 

horses, — little dreaming of the angels and angelic wo- 
men — of the Katherines, the Theklas, and the Undines — 
from whose inspired lips that rough, nervous language 
would flow so harmoniously that all men would listen to 
the melody thereof. In no intellectual field have the 
Germans of the past and present centuries been de- 
feated. Their drama is superior to any other that has 
appeared in Europe during the same period — for I pre- 
sume there can be no comparison between the Shakspe- 
rian power of Schiller and the soft graces of Metestatio 
or even the more masculine classicalities of Alfieri 
Their histories are the mines in which even the most in- 
dustrious writers search for the precious ore of trr th. 
Their philosophy has been either a beacon or an iynis 
fatuus to the inquiring intellects of Europe; while some of 
their artists have come off victorious even in the Eternal 
Metropolis of art itself. In every department of litera- 
ture German intellect has been renewing the almost ex- 
hausted fountains of the world. Like the Egyptian 
river, the great German Rhine has been overflowing the 
earth, and. fruits, and flowers, and waving corn are spring- 
ing luxuriantly in all lands. In the ballad the Germans 
have pre-eminently succeeded. It is with them some- 
what of a short epic, in which, the romance and chivalry 
of the middle ages find a suitable vehicle for their illus- 
tration. They seldom treat of humble life and simple 
passion, like the Scotch ; or individual heroism, like the 
Spanish. They are more historical and legendary than 
directly sentimental or heroic; but through all runs a 
vein of philosophical abstraction and thoughtful melan- 
choly, which imparts to them a peculiar and enduring 
charm. There is scarcely an historical event of any im- 
portance — a legend possessing the slightest interest — a 
superstition, not destitute of grace, sublimity, or terror — 
a river or a mountain that has anything to recommend 
% that has not found an illustrator, an admirer, and a 
laureate among the German Balladists. And the conse • 
quence is, that not only is the German intellect honoured 
and respected, but the German land is also strengthened 
and enriched. The separate though confederated na- 
tions of Germany have been bound together as one peo- 



INTRODUCTION 21 

p!e, by the universal language of their poetry ;* and 
year after year pilgrims and students from strange lands 
wander thither, not attracted so much by the gloom of 
her woody mountains and the magic windings of her 
Rhine, as because (thanks to poetry) through the former 
the wild Jager still hunts and the witches dance on Wal- 
purgis f nights, and because the latter has been made 
the crystal barrier of a free people, and the emblem, in 
its depth, its strength, and its beauty, of the German 
character and intellect. 

It only remains for me to advert to what has been 
done, and what I conceive may be done, in Ireland with 
the ballad. If we recollect the constant state of war- 
fare — the revolution upon revolution — the political strug- 
gles, and the generally unhappy condition of the people 
ever since the invasion, it is matter of surprise that there 
could be found any persons with hearts or intellects suf- 
ficiently strong to escape from the realities around them 
into the abstractions and idealities of poetry ; but that 
there were many who did so, and with a power and 
beauty for which they get little credit, must be evident 
from Mr. Duffy's "'Ballad Poetry," and, I trust, also 
from this volume. I speak now, of course, of our na- 
tive Irish writers. To us there can scarcely be anything 
more interesting or more valuable than these snatches 
and fragments of old songs and ballads, which are chap- 
ters of a nation's autobiography. Without these how 
difficult would it be for the best disposed and the most 
patriotic amongst us to free our minds from the false 
impressions which the study ^ superficial as it was) of 
the history of our country, as told by those who were 
not her children or her friends, had made upon us. In- 
stead of the rude savage kerns that anti-Irish historians 
represent our iorefathers to have been, for ever hovering 

* " Where'er resounds the German tongue— 
Where German hymns to God are sung — 
There, gallant brother, take thy standi 
That is the German's Fatherland!" 

[Mangan's " Anthologia Germanica," vol. ii., p. 180.] 
t Walpurgis is the name of a saint to whom the firat of May is detfi 



t <2 INTRODUCTIWK. 

irith murderous intent round the fortresses of the Pale, 
we see them, in their own ballads, away in their green 
vallies and inaccessible mountains, as fathers, as brothers, 
as lovers, and as husbands, leading the old patriarchal 
life with their wives and children, while the air is 
musical with the melpdy of their harps and the 
lowing of their cattle;— we see them hunting the 
red deer over the brown mountains, or spearing the 
salmon in the pleasant rivers, — or, borne on their 
swift horses, descending in many a gallant foray 
on the startled intruders of the Pale. What is of more 
importance, we look into the hearts and minds of these 
people — we see what they love with such passion — what 
they hate with such intensity — what they revere with 
such sacred fidelity. We find they had love — they had 
loyalty— they had religion — they had constancy — they 
had an undying devotion for the "green hills of holy 
Ireland," and as such they are entitled to our respect, 
our affections, and our imitation. The best ballads they 
have left us are those of the affections, and they are, 
according to Mr. Ferguson, of the utmost possible in- 
tensity of passion, compatible with the most perfect 
purity. Even in their political ballads, where a thin 
Ji.-guise was necessary, the allegory has been so perfect, 
and the wail of sorrow, or the yearning of affection, so 
exquisitely imitated, (as in the instance of the JRoisin 
Dhu, or "Dark Rosaleen,") as to make so excellent a 
critic and so true a poet as Mr. Ferguson doubt if they 
be in reality political ballads at all. 

Upon the subject of our Anglo-Irish Ballads, I have 
nothing to add to what Mr. Duffy has so ably and so 
truly written in his introduction to the " Ballad Poetry of 
Ireland." That there is a distinct character and a pecu- 
liar charm in the best ballads of this class which the 
highest genius, unaccompanied by thorough Irish feel- 
ing, and a thorough Irish education, would fail to im» 
part to them, — must be evident to every one who has 
read that volume. To those among us, and to the gene- 
rations who are yet to be among us, whose mother 
tongue is, and of necessity must be, the English and not 
the Irish, the establishing of this fact is of the utmost 



INTRODUCTION.. 



23 



Importance, and of the greatest consolation: — that wa 
can be thoroughly Irish in our writings without ceasing 
to be English ; that we can be faithful to the land of 
our birth, without being ungrateful to that literature 
which has been "the nursing mother of our minds," 
that we can develop the intellectual resources of our 
country, and establish for ourselves a distinct and sepa- 
rate existence in the world of letters, without depriving 
ourselves of the advantages of the widely-diffused and 
genius-consecrated language of England, are facts that I 
conceive cannot be too widely disseminated. This pe- 
culiar character of our poetry is, however, not easily im- 
parted. An Irish word or an Irish phrase, even appo- 
sitely introduced, will not be sufficient ; it must pervade 
the entire poem, and must be seen and felt in the con- 
struction, the sentiment, and the expression. Our 
writers would do well to consider the advantages, even 
in point of success and popularity, which would be 
likely to attend the working of this peculiar vein of 
Anglo-Irish literature. If they write, as they are too 
much in the habit of doing, in the weak, worn-out style 
of the majority of co temporary English authors, they 
will infallibly be lost in the crowd of easy writers and 
smooth versifiers, whose name is legion, on the other 
side of the channel ; whereas, if they endeavour to be 
racy of their native soil, use their native idiom, illus- 
trate the character of their country, treasure her legends, 
eternalize her traditions, people her scenery, and enno- 
ble her superstitions, the very novelty will attract atten- 
tion and secure success. * 

In conclusion I have only to state that I have endea- 
voured to draw the materials of this volume as much aa 



» No one can douo. the truth of this, who regards the state of tha 
nteTary world in England at present. Every native topic and every 
native mode of authorship seem so thoroughly exhausted (or, to use 
the expressive cant phrase, so completely " used up") that we find the 
great London book merchants drawing from Sweden and Denmark, 
from Iceland, from Russia, and the far East, some temporary supply for 
the literary wants of the day. This, of course, is not the motive that 
should influence our writers; but the suggestion in this age may aot 
be without its use. 



2* INTRODUCTION. 

possible from hitherto unused sources. It was my ori- 
^inal intention to have extracted copiously from the 
quarto edition of " The Spirit of the Nation," as it con- , 
tains many exquisite ballads, by Mr. Duffy, Mr. Wil- 
liams, Mr. Barry, Mr. Lane, Mr. Drennan, and other 
writers, which have never been published in any very 
cheap or very accessible form. I found, however, the 
number of poems which were still even newer to the 
public than those, so abundant, that I have confined 
myself to the selection of two from that work — one of 
them (The Muster of the North)* principally because I 
believe it to be the best historical ballad the country has 
yet produced; and the other, as illustrating the most 
remarkable period of political excitement within my own 
memory. I have to regret that this volume does not 
contain a greater number of the poems of our greatest 
Poet — Thomas Moore. I would have been proud to 
have testified my admiration of him as a Poet and a 
Man, by extracting largely from his works — as, to my 
mind, many of his songs are perfect ballads — as faultless 
in design as they are exquisitely conceived and executed. 
In publishing these ballads, however, I considered I 
would be but giving most of my readers what they have 
already possessed, so that in reality no one suffers by 
the omissions but myself, a very humble but a very 
willing victim to the unbounded popularity of Thomas 
Moore. 

I blush to allude to myself, so soon after such a name, 
but I fear I owe some apology to the reader for the in- 
troduction into this collection of three of my own poems 
— " the wish of friends" in this, as in so many other in- 
stances, has of course prevailed. 



D. F. M'CARTHY. 



88, Upper Baggot-street, 
September, 1846. 



* By an accident " The Muster of the North* is pl&ced amor.: 
Political instead of the Historical Ballads. 



BOOK OF IRISH BALLADS. 



BALLADS 

ILLUSTRATIVE OF THE FAIRY MYTHOLOGY AEE© 
TRADITIONS OF IRELAND. 



A FAIKY TALE. 



BY THOMAS FAB.NELL. 



[I have been induced to retain this Ballad of Parnell, notwithstand- 
ing its unmistakable English dress— to some extent for the simple 
grace and beauty of its style — but principally because the story, how- 
ever disguised, is essentially Irish, and illustrates very pleasingly some 
of the pranks and mingled benevolence and malice of "the good 
people." There is scarcely a child in the country, old enough to have 
its imagination or its taste for the marvellous developed, that is not 
familiar witli some version of this story, learned in many instances 
where Parnell himself first heard it. in an Irish nurse's arms. This he 
confesses in the stanza of the ballad which precedes the last. Parnell, 
in imitating the old English style — in placing the scene of his poem 
" in Britain's Isle and Arthur's days" — (Spenser, so skilled in all the 
chronology and topography of faiiy land, had already settled the ques- 
tion of time and place), and in adding a new flower to the already 
beautiful fairy garland of England, was actuated I believe by no con- 
scious dislike for his native country; but his doing so was quite in 
keeping with the habits of his life. For being, as Goldsmith informs us, 
always " very much elated or depressed, and his whole life spent in 
agony or rapture," he invariably gave his English friends the benefit 
of his rapf ure and elation ; but when the gloomy fit returned, he would 
fly back to Ireland, and vent his spleen and agony in satirical songs, 
.on the scenery and people that surrounded him. These songs I believe 
hare not been preserved, at least they are not given in any edition of 



his works that I have seen. Goldsmith whs a great admirer of tfc« 
" fairy Tale," and pronounced it, notwithstanding its defective imita- 
tion of the old dialect, as " incoutestibly one of the finest pieces in anj 
language." 

The most accessible Irish version of the story, and 1 believe the mod 
popular, is that which is given in Crofton Croker's " Fairy Legends of 
Ireland," where " Lusmore" acts the part of "Edwin," and "Jacs 
"' that of the luckless " Sir J opaz."] 

In Britain's isle, and Arthur's days, 
"When midnight fairies dane'd the maze, 

Liv'd Edwin of the Green ; 
Edwin, I wis, a gentle youth, 
Endow'd with courage, sense, and truth, 

Though hadly shap'd he'd been. 

His mountain back mote well be said, 
To measure height against his head, 

And lift itself above ; 
Yet, spite of ail that nature did 
To make his uncouth form forbid, 

This creature dar'd to love. 

He felt the charms of Edith's eyes, 
Nor wanted hope to gain the prize, 

Could ladies look within ; 
But one Sir Topaz dress 'd with art, 
And, if a shape could win a heart, 

He had a shape to win. 

Edwin, if right I read my song, 
With slighted passion pae'd along 

All in the moony light; 
Twas near an old enchanted court, 
Where sportive fairies made resort 

To revel out the night. 

His heart was drear, his hope was croes'fi. 
'Twas late, 'twas far, the path was lost 

He reach'd the neighbour town: 
With weary steps he quits the shades, 
Besolv'd, the darkling dome he treads, 

And drops his limbs adown. 



IRISH BALLADS. 

But scant he lays him on the floor, 
When hollow winds remove the door, 

And trembling rocks the ground; 
And well I ween to count aright, 
At once a hundred tapers light 

On all the walls around. 

Now sounding tongues assail his ear, 
Now sounding feet approachen near, 

And now the sounds increase : 
And from the corner where he lay 
He sees a train profusely gay 

Come prankliug o'er the place. 

But (trust me, gentles !) never yet 
Was dight a masquing half so neat, 

Or half so rich before ; 
The country lent the sweet perfumes, 
The sea the pearl, the sky the plumes, 

The town its silken store. 

Now whilst he gaz'd, a gallant drest 
In flaunting robes above the rest, 

With awful accent cry'd : 
"What mortal of a wretched mind, 
Whose sighs infect the balmy wind, 

Has here presum'd to hide ?" 

At this the swain, whose vent'rous sooS 
No fears of magic art control, 

Advanc'd in open sight ; 
"Nor have I cause of dread," he said, 
" Who view, by no presumption led, 

Your revels of the night. 

"*Twas grief, for scorn of faithful loves 
Which made my steps unweeting rove 

Amid the nightly drew." 
•« Tis well," the gallant cries again, 
" We fairies never inj ure men 

Who dare to tell us true. 



as 



"Exalt thy love-dejected heartt 
Be mine the task, or ere we part, 

To make thee grief resign ; 
Now take the pleasure of thy chaunce 
Whilst I with Mab, my partner, daunce. 

Be little Mabie thine." 

He spoke, and all a sudden there 
Light music floats in wanton air : 

The monarch leads the queen ; 
The rest their fairy partners found : 
And Mable trimly tript the ground 

With Edwin of the Green. 

The dauncing past, the board was laid, 
And siker such a feast was made, 

As heart and lip desire ; 
Withouten hands the dishes fly, 
The glasses with a wish come nigh, 

And with a wish retire. 

But now, to please the fairy king, 
Full every deal they laugh and sing, 

And antic feats devise ; 
Some wind and tumble like an ape, 
And other some transmute their shape 

In Edwin's wondering eyes. 

Till one at last, that Robin hight, 
Renown'd for pinching maids by night, 

Has bent him up aloof; 
And full against the beam he flung, 
Where by the back the youth he hung 

To sprawl uneath the roof. 

From thence, " Reverse my charm," he cries. 
" And let it fairly now suffice 

The gambol has been shown." 
But Oberon answers with a smile, 
•' Content thee, Edwin, for a while. 

The vantage is thine own." 



IRISH BALLADS. 

Here ended all the phantom-play ; 
They smelt the fresh approach of day, 

* And heard a cock to crow ; 
The whirling wind that bore the crowd 
lias clapp'd the door, and whistled loud, 
To warn them all to go. 

Then screaming all at once they fly, 
And all at once the tapers die : 

Poor Edwm falls to floor ; 
Forlorn his state, and dark the place, 
Was never wight in sack a case 

Through all the land before. 

But soon as Dan Apollo rose, 
Full jolly creature home he goes, 

He feels his back the less ; 
His honest tongue and steady mind 
Had rid him of the lump behind, 

Which made him want success. 

With lusty livelyhed he talks, 
He seems a dancing as he walks, 

His story soon took wind ; 
And beauteous Edith sees the youth 
Endow'd with courage, sense, and trui&. 

Without a bunch behind. 

The story told, Sir Topaz mov'd, 
The youth of Edith erst approv'd. 

To see the revel scene . 
At close of eve he leaves his home, 
And wends to find the ruin'd dome 

All on the gloomy plain. 

As there he bides, it so befel 

The wind came rustling down a deli, 

A shaking seiz'd the wall ; 
Up spring the tapers as before, 
The fairies bragly foot the floor, 

And music fills the hall. 



28 



But certes sorely sunk with woe 
Sir Topaz sees the Eiphin enow, 

His spirits in him die : 
When Oberon cries, " A man is nets?, 
A mortal passion, cleeped fear, 

Hangs flagging in the sky." 

With that Sir Topaz, hapless youthl 
In accents faultering, ay for ruth, 

Intreats them pity grant : 
For als he been a mister wight 
Betrayed by wandering in the night 

To tread the circled haunt. 

«' A Losell vile," at once they roar. 
« 4 And little skill'd of fairy lore ; 

Thy cause to come, we know ; 
Now has thy kestrel courage fell ; 
And fairies, since a lie you tell, 

Are free to work thee woe."* 

Then Will who bears the wispy fire 
To trail the swains among the mire, 

The caitiff upwards flung ; 
There, like a tortoise in a shop, 
He dangled from the chamber- top, 

Where whilome Edwin hung. 

The revel now proceeds apace, 
Deftly they frisk it o'er the place, 

They sit, they drink, and eat ; 
The time with frolic mirth beguile, 
And poor Sir Topaz hangs the while 

Till all the rout retreat. 

By this the stars began to wink, 
They shriek, they fly, the tapers sink, 

And down y-drops the knight : 
For never spell by fairy laid 
With strong enchantment bound a gi£^ a 

Beyond the length of night. 



IRISH BALLADS. 

Chill, dark, alone, adreed, he lay, 
Till up the welkin rose the day, 

Then deem'd the dole was o'er: 
But wot ye well his harder lot? 
His seely back the hunch hail got 

Which Edwin lost ai'ore. 

This tale a Sybil-nurse ared ; 

She softly stroak'd my youngling head, 

And when the tale was done, 
"Thus some are born, my son," she cries, 
" With base impediments to rise, 

And some are born with none. 

"But virtue can itself advance 

To what the favourite fools of chance 

By fortune seem'd desigu'd ; 
Virtue can gain the odds of fate, 
And from itself shake oSF the weight 

Upon th' unworthy mind." 



THE FAIRY WELL OF LAGNANAY. 

BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, Sg.B.I.A. 



Mournfully, sing mournfully — 
" O listen, Ellen, sister dear : 

Is there no help &t all for me, 
But only ceaseless sigh and tear? 
Why did not he who left me here, 

With stolen hope steal memory? 

listen. Ellen, sister dear, 
(Mournfully, sing mournfully) — 

I'll go away to Sleamish hill, 
X'll pluck the fairy hawthorn-tree, 
And let the spirits work their will ( 

1 care not if for good or ill. 



So they but lay the memory 

Which all my heart is haunting still) 
(Mournfully, sing mournfully) — 

The Fairies are a silent race, 
And pale as lily flowers to see ; 

I care not for a blanched face, 

Nor wandering in a dreaming place, 
So I but banish memory : — 

I wish I were with Anna Grace I" 
Mournfully, sing mournfully ! 

ii. 
Hearken to my tale of woe — 

' Twas thus to weeping Ellen Con, 
Her sister said in accents low, 

Her only sister, Una bawn : 

'Twas in their bed before the dawn, 
And Ellen answered sad and slow, — 

"Oh Una, Una, be not drawn 
(Hearken to my tale of woe) — 

To this unholy grief I pray, 
Which makes me sick at heart to know, 

And I will help you if I may : 

— The Eairy Well of Lagnanay — 
Lie nearer me, I tremble so, — 

Una, I've heard wise women say 
(Hearken to my tale of woe ) — 

That if before the dews arise. 
True maiden in its icy flow 

With pure hand bathe her bosom thrice. 

Three lady-brackens pluck likewise, 
And three times round the fountain go, 

She straight forgets her tears and sighs. * 
Hearken to my tale of woe I 



All alas ! and wellaway ! 

" Oh, sister Ellen, sister sweet;, 

Come with me to the hill I pray, 
And I will prove that blessed freeftT 
They rose with soft and silent feet, 

They left their mother where she lay, 



IRISH BALLADS. 

Their mother and her care discreet, 
(All, alas ! and wellaway !) 

And soon they reached the Fairy "Well, 
The mountain's eye, clear, cold, and grey, 

Wide open in the dreary fell : 

How long they stood ' twere vain to tell, 
At last upon the point of day, 

Bawn Una hares her bosom's swell, 
(All, alas 1 and wellawaj r ) 1 

Thrice o'er her shrinking breasts she laves 
The gliding glance that will not stay 

Of subtly-streaming fairy waves : — 

And now the charm three brackens craves 
She plucks them in their fring'd array : — 

Now round the well her fate she braves. 
All alas 1 and wellaway 1 



Save us all from Fairy thrall I 

Ellen sees her face the rim 
Twice and thrice, and that is all — 

Fount and hill and maiden swim 

All together melting dim! 
" Una ! Una !" thou may'st call, 

Sister sad I but lith or limb 
(Save us all from Fairy thrall !) 

Never again of Una bawn 
Where now she walks in dreamy hall, 

Shall eye of mortal look upon ! 

Oh ! can it be the guard was gone, 
That better guard than shield or wall ? 

Who knows on earth save Jurlagh Daune? 
(Save us all from Fairy thrall) ! 

Behold the banks are green and bare, 
No pit is here wherein to fall : 

Aye — at the fount you well may stare, 

But nought save pebbles smooth is ther&. 
And small straws twirling. one and all. 

Hie thee home, and be thy pray'r, 
Save us all from Fairy tlirali. 



HY-BRASAIL— THE ISLE OF THE BLEST. 

BY GERALD GRIFFIN. 

[" The people of Arran fancy that at certain periods they see Bf- 
Brasail elevated far to the west in their watery horizon This had 
been the universal tradition of the ancient Irish, who supposed that a 
great part of Ireland had been swallowed by the sea, and that the 
iunken part often rose, and was seen hanging in the horizon I Such 
was the popular notion. The Hy-Brasctil of the Irish is evidently a 
part of the Ataluntis of Plato.» who, in his • Timeeus,' says that that 
Island was totally swallowed up by a prodigious earthquake. Of some 
such shocks the isles of Arran, the promontories of Antrim, and some 
of the western islands of Scotland, bear evident marks.'' — 0' Flaherty t 
SieteA of t/ie Island of Arran.] 

On the ocean that hollows the rocks where ye dwell, 
A shadowy land has appeared, as they tell ; 
Men thought it a region of sunshine and rest, 
Ana uiey called it Hy-Brasail, the isle of the blest. 
From year unto year, on the ocean's blue rim, 
The beautiful spectre showed lovely and dim ; 
The golden clouds curtained the deep where it lay, 
And it looked like an Eden, away, far away 1 

A peasant who heard of the wonderful tale, 
In the breeze of the Orient loosened his sail ; 
From Ara, the holy, he turned to the west, 
For though Ara was holy, Hy-Brasail was blest. 
He heard not the voices that called from the shore- 
He heard not the rising wind's menacing roar ; 
Home, kindred, and safety, he left on that day, 
And he sped to Hy-Brasail, away, far away I 

Morn rose on the deep, and that shadowy isle. 
O'er the faint rim of distance, reflected its smile ; 
Noon burned on the wave, and that shadowy shore 
Seemed loveL v distant, and faint as before ; 
Lone evening came down on the wanderer's track. 
And to Ara again he looked timidly back; 
Oh 1 far on the verge of the ocean it lay, 
Yet the isle of the blest was away, far away ! 

• For a ballad on this subject, by the Rev. G. Croly, see pa&a 17. 



IBISH BALLADS. 35 

Rash dreamer, return ! 0, ye winds of the main, 
Bear him back to his own peaceful Ara again. 
Rash fool ! for a vision of fanciful bliss, 
To barter thy calm life of labour and peace. 
The warning of reason was spoken in vain ; 
He never re-visited Ara again ! 
Night fell on the deep, amidst tempest and spray, 
And he died on the waters, away, far away I 



THE MOUNTAIN SPRITE. 

BY THOMAS MOORE. 

In yonder valley there dwelt, alone, 
A youth, whose moments had calmly flown, 
'Till spells came o'er him, and, day and night, 
He was haunted and watch'd by a Mountain Sprite 

As once, by moonlight, he wander'd o'er 
The golden sands of that island shore ; 
A foot-print sparkled before his sight — 
'Twas the fairy foot of the Mountain Sprite ! 

Beside a fountain, one summer day, 

As bending over the stream he lay, 

There peeped down o'er him two eyes of light, 

And he saw in that mirror the Mountain Sprite. 

He turn'd, but, lo ! like a startled bird, 

That spirit fled ! — and the youth but heard 

Sweet music, such as marks the flight 

Of some bird of song, from the Mountain Sprite. 

One night, still haunted by that bright look, 

The boy, bewilder 'd, his pencil took ; 

And guided only by memory's light, 

Drew the once-seen form of the Mountain Sprite, 



Stt BOOK OF 

" Oh, thow, who lovest the shadow," cried 
A voice, low whispering by his side, 
11 Now turn and see" — here the youth's delight 
Seal'd the rosy lips of the Mountain Sprite. 

•• Of all the spirits of land and sea," 

Then rapt he murmur'd, " there's none like thee j 

Ami oft, oh oft, may thy foot thus light 

In this lonely bower, sweet Mountain Sprite !" 



THE CITY OF GOLD. 



[This is another ballad on the beautiful fable of a pi 
tu the Atlantic] 

Years onward have swept, 
Aye ! long ages have rolled — 

Since the billows first slept 
O'er the City of Gold ! 

'Neath its eddy of white 

Where the green wave is swelling. 
In their halls of delight 

Are the fairy tribes dwelling. 

And, but seldom the eye 
Of a mortal may scan, 

Where those palaces high 
Rise unaided by man. 

Yet, at times the waves sever, 
And then you may view 

The yellow walls ever 

'Neath *he ocean's deep blue. 

Dut I warn thee, man J 

Never seek to behold, 
Where the crystal streams rs3l 

In the City of Gold 5 



IRISH BALLArP. 37 

Like a beauty <nth guile, 

"When some young knight has found her, 
There is death in her smile, 

And dark ruin around her 1 

Like a Poet's first dream, 

In his longings for glory ; 
A dagger whose gleam, 

With the life blood is gory. 

Like wishes possessed, 

And for which we have panted, 

When we find us unblest, 
Tho' our prayers hare been granted. 

Like ought that's forbidden, 

Weak man to behold, 
Death and sorrow are hid in 

The City of Gold. 

Rash youth ! dost thou view it, 

The ransom thou'lt pay, 
Alas ! thou must rue it, 

Death takes thee to-day ! 

T;ob4it-il4-Sj4,* 

OR, 

THE FAIRY WELL. 

BY JAMES TEELING. 

[Amongst the many old and fanciful superstitions embodied In the 
traditions of our peasantry, some of the most poetical are those con- 
nected with spring wells, which in Ireland have been invested with 
something of a sacred character ever since the days of Druidical wor- 
cnip. It is in some parts of the country an article of popular belief, 
that the desecration of a spring, by any unworthy use, Is invariably 
followed by some misfortune to the offender; and that the well itself, 
which is regarded as the source of fruitfulness and prosperity, moves 
altogether out of the field in which the violation had been commlttaiA 
—Dub. University Mag., vol. viii., p. 447.] 

Oh ! Peggy Bawn was innocent, 
And wild as any roe ; 

* Thubber-na-Shte. 



Her cheek was like the summer rose, 
Her neck was like the snow : 

And every eye was in her head 

So beautiful and bright. 
You'd almost think they d light her through 

Glencarrigy by night. 

Among the hills and mountains, 

Above her mother's home, 
The long and weary summer day 

Young Peggy Blake would roam ; 

And not a girl in the town 

From Dhua to Glenlur, 
Could wander through the mountain's 

Or climb the rocks with her. 

The Lammas sun was ehmin' on 

The meadows all so brown ; 
The neighbours gathered far and near 

To cut the ripe crops down ; 

And pleasant was the mornin', 

And dewy was the dawn, 
And gay and lightsome hearted 

To the sunny fields they're gone. 

The joke was passing lightly, 

And the laugh was loud and free j 

There was neither care nor trouble 
To disturb their hearty glee ; 

When, says Peggy, resting in among 

The sweet and scented hay, 
"I wonder is there one would brav* 

The Fairy -well to-day 1" 

She looked up with her laughin' eyea 

So soft, at Willy Rhu ; 
Och murdher ! that she didn'd heed 

His warnin' kind and true 1 



IRISH BALLADS. 

But all tlie boys and girls laughed, 

And Willy Rhu looked shy ; 
God help you, Willy ! sure they seei. 

The throuble in your eye. 

" Now, by my faith !" young Conneli sajffli 

" I like your notion well — 
There's a power more than gospel 

In "what crazy gossips tell." 

Oh, my heavy hatred fall upon 
Young Conneli of Sliabh-Mast ! 

He took the cruel vengeance 
For his scorned love at last. 

The jokin' and the jibin', 

And the banterin' went on 
One girl dared another, 

And they all dared Paggy Bawn. 

Till leaping up, away she flew 

Down to the hollow green — 
Her bright locks, floating in the wind, 

Like golden lights were seen. 

They saw her at the Fairy well— 

Their laughin' died away, 
They saw her stoop above its brink 

With heart as cold as clay. 

Oh ! mother, mother, never stand 

Upon your cabin floor ! 
You heard the cry that through your heart 

WAl ring for evermore ; 

For when she came up from the well, 

No one could stand her look ! 
Her eye was wild — her cheek was 

They saw her mind was shook : 



40 



And the gaze she cast around her 

Was so ghastly and so sad — 
" O Christ preserve us !" shouted all, 

" Poor Peggy Blake's gone mad!" 

The moon was up — the stars were out, 

And shining through the sky, 
When young and old stood mourning round 

To see their darling die. 

Poor Peggy from the death-bed rose — 

Her face was pale and cold, 
And down about her shoulders hung 

The lovely locks of ^-nd. 

"All you that's here this night," she said, 

" Take warnin' by my fate, 
Whoever braves the Fairies' wrath, 

Their sorrow comes too late." 

The tear was startin' in her eye, 

She clasp'd her throbbin' head, 
And when the sun next mornin' rose 

Poor Peggy Bawn lay dead. 



FAIRY REVELS. 

The fairies are dancing by Drake and bower, 
For this in their land is the merriest hour. 

Their steps are soft, and their rohes are light, 
And they trip it at ease in the clear moonlight. 

Their queen is in youth and in beauty there, 
And the daughters of earth are not half so fair. 

Her glance is quick, and her eyes are bright, 
But they glitter with wild and unearthly light 



IRISH BALLADS. 41 

Her brow is all calm, and her looks are kind, 

But the look that she gives leaves hut pain behind. 

Her voice is soft, and her smiles are sweet, 
But wue to thee who such smiles shall meet. 

She will meet thee at dusk like a lady fair, 
But go not, for danger awaits thee there. 

She will take thee to ramble by grove and by glen, 
And the friends of thy youth shall not know thee again. 



THE ENCHANTED ISLAND. 

[The tradition in this beautiful little ballad is almost the same as 
that on which "The City of Gold," "Hy-Brasail,"and other poems in this 
collection are founded, except in point of locality ; the scene of the 
latter ballads being placed in the Atlantic, to the west of the Isles ol 
Arran, while " the Enchanted Island" is supposed to be in the neigh- 
bourhood of Kathlin Islind, off the north coast of the count}' Antrim. 
The name of the island, which has been spe'led a different way by 
almost every writer on the subject, is supposed to be derived from 
Ragh-erin, or " the Fort of Erin, : ' as its situation, commanding the 
Irish coast, might make it, not unaptly, be styled " the fortress of Ire- 
land." — See Leonard's Topographia Hibernica.] 

To Rathlin's Isle I chanced to sail, 

When summer breezes softly blew, 
And there I heard so sweet a tale, 

That oft I wished it could be true. 

They said, at eve, when rude winds sleep, 

And hushed is ev'ry turbid swell, 
A mermaid rises from the deep, 

And sweetly tunes her magic shell. 

And while she plays, rock, dell, and cave, 

In dying falls the sound retain, 
As if some choral spirits gave 

Their aid to swell her witching strain 



Alien summoned by that dulcet note* 
Uprising to th' admiring view, 

A fairy island seems to float 
With tints of many a gorgeous hue. 

And glittering fanes, and lofty towers, 
All on this fairy isle are seen ; 

And waving trees, and shady bowers, 
With more than mortal verdure green, 

And as it moves, the western sky 
Glows with a thousand varying rays ; 

And the calm sea, tinged with each dye, 
Seems like a golden flood of blaze. • 

They also say, if earth or stone, 
From verdant Erin's hallowed land, 

Were on this magic island thrown, 
For ever fixed, it then wouM stand. 

But, when for this, some little boat 
In silence ventures from the shore — 

The mermaid sinks — hushed is the note, 
The fairy isle is seen no more 1 



THE FAIRY RATH OF LOCH INNIN. 

BY ALEXANDER HENRY. 

[The wild steed mentioned in this ballad is, I presume, tha 
Pheoka, a species of being which, perhaps, more than any other in 
the Fairy Mythology of Ireland, is capable of poetic illustration ; and 
yet, with the exception of this, I have not been able to meet with 
any modern poem in which it is described. When I wrote my own 
ballad of " Alice and Una" (which I have placed last in this division), 
I was not aware of the existence even of this one. It was to supply, 
however inadequately, a deficiency that appeared to me extraordinary, 
and with the hope of inducing some person more competent than 
myself to undertake the illustration of our neglected or vulgarised tra- 
that that ballad wua written. The l'hooka is of the miUif 



IBISH BALLADS. 43 

Bant class of talry beings, and he Is as wild and capricious in his cha- 
racter as he is changeable in his form. At one time an eagle or an 
Ignis fatuus, at another a horse or a bull, while occasionally he figures 
as " two single animals rolled into one," exhibiting a compound of the 
calf and goat. When he assumes the form of a horse, his great ob- 
ject, according to a recent writer, seems to be " to obtain a rider, and 
then he is in his most malignant glory. Headlong he dashes 
through briar and brake, through flood and fell, over mountain, val- 
ley, moor, or river indiscriminately: up or down precipice is alike to 
him, provided he gratifies the malevolence that seems to inspire him. 
He bounds and flies over and beyond them, gratified by the distress, 
and utterly reckless and ruthless of the cries and danger and suffer- 
ing of the luckless wight who bestrides him. As the "Tinna Geo- 
laae," or " Will-o-the-Wisp," he lures but to betray. Like the Hanove- 
rian " Tuckbold" he deludes the night wanderer into a bog, and leads 
him to his destruction in a quagmire or pit. Macpherson's spirit of 
Loda is evidently founded on the tradition of the Phooka; and in the 
Finnian Tales he is repeatedly mentioned as the " Puka (gruagach, or 
hairy spirit) of the blue valley." — Cboker's Fairy Legends — Hall's 
Ireland.] 

The fair was o'er, the moon was high, 

The badger purr'd, the bog-sprite shone ; 
From the dark cairn the beanshie's cry 
Had told some favourite friend was gone ; 
The plover 
Flew over 
The dark dewy wood : 
Each rath-fay 
His path way 
Row'd o'er the night flood. 
Jack Finn now bid his friends good night, 

And staggered towards his woodland cot : 
A wild, good hearted, cheery wight 
As e'er smok'd pipe, or drained a pot. 
Thro' rushes 
And bushes 
He whistled loud, to show 
The bog-sprite 
With red light 
He fear'd not as a foe. 
But now lie passed a lonely tower, 

Where once bright mirth and splendour 
But nov, with mirth, with pride and power, 
Its very name was nearly gone. 



book or 

The Leprechauns beneath it dwelt, 

Poor Jack now missed the beaten path, 
And soon, poor wight 1 he trembling felt 

"What ' twas to pass a Fairy rath : 
As o'er its hollow sounding sod 

His heavy step now loudly rang, 
A tiny form before him trod, 

And thus with wildest accents sang : 
" When moonlight 
Near midnight 
Tips the rock and waving wood : 
When moonlight 
Near midnight 
Silvers o'er the sleeping flood : 
When yew-tops 
With dew-drops 
Sparkle o'er deserted graves . 
'Tis then we fly 
Thro' welkin high, 
Then we sail o'er yellow waves." 
On his head he wore a round plum'd hat, 
Forru'd of fur of the old black rat ; 
His scarlet coat and purple breeches 
Were finely sown by fairies' stitches. 
His stockings were made of the fine white down 

That tufted the soft, bloated night-moth's breast; 
And the green golden -crested wren's bright crown 

Was stolen by elfins to trim his light vest ; 
His steed was a wild-bounding bearded goat, 

Whose trappings were made of the sanguine SKin 
Of a dead man's wrist, on which he could float 

Thro' water or air, as the wing or fin : 
His jack-boots were made of the bat's tann'd wings ; 
His spurs were the bright golden queen-bees' stings; 
The whistle that headed kis wild fiax whip 
Was reav'd from a cricket; his pigmy hip 
Was girt with a well-tempered sharp, long blade 
Which once darn'd the hose of some fair housemaid 
Thus equipp'd, he gallopp'd o'er hill and i 
And now to the Fairy Rath doth lead. 



IRISH BALLADS. 

The Rath was nigh deep Tnnin's lake, 
Well fenced with rook-pine bush and brake ; 
The brown-back'd rabbit o'er it fed, 
And in its soft sand furrowed — 
But there (the red-ray'd evening's sun 
When down) the fowler's murd'rous gun 
Was heard no more — for woe the wight 
Would tread it 'neath the lone moonlight. 
Beside it lay the dreamless bed 
Of those forgotten — long since dead; 
For from the tombstones o'er them cast 
Their names were worn by winter's blast. 
Howe'er it be. Jack Finn got there — 
The Fairy King surrounded stood, 
Amidst the moon's reflected glare. 

Of polish'd blades upon the flood, 
(Which calmly sleeping on the sand, 

Did scarcely move the floating weed,) 
And thus address'd his list'ning band, 
And thus Jack Finn's sad fate decreed :— 
" That mortal wight, 
Who roves by night, 
To dare the sprite, 
Who rides the light 
Of moonbeams bright, 
Shall feel his might : 
For this, I say, 
Till break of day, 
Jack Finn so gay, 
For this shall pay, — 
Help, witches gray, 

Ope' graves Obey!" 

'Twas now the fearful magic spell 

Did strongly work against Jack Fina, 
For all the dead began to yell,. 

And death's heads on the tombs to grin ; 
The coffins rose from moving graves, 
And burst their red-worm — shining staves, 
And eacli from whole or crumbling shroud 
8s>id, "Jack, good night," then slowly bow'd. 



BOOK OB 

And in theii dark graves yawning Ml, 
Order'd by fearful magic spell ; 
And now the troops of fairy-land, 
Grown to Jack's size, before him stand ; 
Jack's joy was great to see the crowd ; 

He caught their King's false proffered hasd 
Then to him love and friendship vow'd, 

And join'd the seeming peasant band. 
But little reck'd their leader's horse 

Was once a goat or speckled cat ; 
His fears were for the grinning corse 

Half ate by worms or charnel rat. 
He mounted quick a sloe-black steed, 
Noted in fairy-land for speed, 
And joyous bade the ghosts good night, 
Then with the elfins wing'd his flight — 
The signal given, away he flew 

O'er the gray weedy charnel wall, 
"Poor luckless Jack," shrill cried the crew, 

" Be silent when the fairies call." 
They leap the scented hawthorn hedge, 

And gallop thro' the wavy mead, 
And thro' the black bog, flags and sedge, 

Poor Jack now guides his magic steed : 
Now the tall lonely tower of Slane 
Rises o'er the dark demesne, 
Which by the distance seem'd to shroud 
Its ruined head in russet cloud ; 
But soon the creeping ivy's seen, 
To cloak its breast with moon-ray'd green ; 
And fir, and oak, and shining holly, 
Bedeck this throne of melancholy ; 
And sighing, shade alike the head 
Of prince or begger mouldered, 
Who 'neath the silent village lie, 

Close fene'd with pale mist-covered grovc% 
Where soaring goshawks proudly fly, 

Where prowling fox securely roves. 
And now the lordly Castle's seen, 

As if the tower it sought to join. 



JBISH BALLADS. *7 

With woody arms of dappled green, 

Reflected in the sullen Boyne. 
f)ark misty woods the distance cloud, 
And black bent oaks the river crowd, 
Save on those turns that smoothly shine, 
Devoid of rocks, rough-crovvn'd with pine! 
Reflected clouds with silver swell, 
Here slowly pass, as if they fell 
To kiss the stream and bid it flow 
With joy — but hoarse with sallow woe 
Has deep Boyne run, since Tara's Kings 
Had with their blood imbrued its springs. 
Jack, led by fairies — wretched wight ! 

Was nearly dead thro' fright and woe, 
And silent cursed the luckless night, 

And Fay, that caused his being so. 
They quickly leap'd across the Boyne, 

Save Jack (who thought he now was free) $ 
But soon his snorting horse did join 

With him the pigmy company. 
Hark 1 hark 1 said one, I hear a flute, 
List] listl my friends, be still and mute! 
I see a boat, sure mortals breathe 
That note upon the waves beneath — 
The mellow horn, the flute and harp, 
Are nearing now the gurgling sharp — 
They silent pass, with dripping oars 
Uplifted — now soft music pours, 
Again — the barge '§ dipping wings, 
Ruffle the stream with sparkling rings ; 
The swelling notes are passing near, 

Now beats in time the stroke of oars, 
And on the moon-lit waves appear 

Their boiling rings, which lave the ohorsa. 
The sailing music echoes thro' 

Dark hanging woods — Boyne's canopy . 

The castle turrets bound the view, 

The passing harp-chords softly sigh. 
The boat now smoothly floats away, 
Its oars are deck'd with yellow spray ; 
The notes are softer — now they die, 



And could be drown'd by Jack's deep eigh. 
Bwt in his breast he breathless held 
7'lwt heavy throb, until compell'd 
:«u» -*)b it forth — the barge is fled, 
"■ - listening night wind followed- — 
With trembling Jack, the fairies pranc'd 

O'er Bective, and o er old Bellsoon ; 
In Creasetown's vale, round Jack they daae'd!* 

Beneath the yellow setting moon. 
Then towards the Shannon flew away, 
And leap'd the Shannon every Fay. 
But Jack, who thought it ne'er was in 
A fiend or mortal horse's skin 
To cross a full half mile of flood, 
In the De'il's stirrups gazing stood. 
But, hark ! that distant whistle shrill 
That's echoed from yon moon-lit hill ; 
Now hark ! Jack's courser's answering neigh* 
Now see him wheel with Jack away, 
And like a swift ball from a cannon 
Leap with poor Jack the river Shannon. 
"Cujrlerno c]\oroe,"* said Jack, "youara. 
Away flew steed like meteor star 
With fiery tail, and shook poor Jack 
Upon the bank from off his back. 



THE PHANTOM CITS'. 

BY GERALD GRIFFIN. 

A btory I heard on the cliffs of the west, 

That oft, through the breakers dividing, 
A city is seen on the ocean's wild breast 

In turreted majesty riding. 
But brief is the glimpse of that phantom so bright, 

Soon close the white waters to screen it ; 
And the bodement, they say, of the wonderful sigh* 

Is death to the eyes that have seen it. 



JBI8H BAU-AX>S a 4 

I «aicl, when they told me the wonderM tftfe>. 

My country, .is this not thy gtoxy " 
T.JU* Gft through the ureaKers of discord we hail 

A promise of peace and of glory. 
Soon gulphed in those waters of hatred again 

No longer our fancy can find it, 
And woe to our hearts for the vision so vain. 

For ruin and death come behind it. 



THE MAGIC WELL. 

A LEGEND OF KILLAJtNET. 
BT W. M. DOWNES. 



[This ballad Is founded upon the following legend: — "There waa 
once upon a time, near the western coast of Ireland, a romantic valley 
jihabited by a few peasants, whose rude cabins were surrounded by 
the most luxuriant trees, and sheltered by mountains rising almost 
perpendicularly on every side. Ireland lias still many beautiful green 
v.iles; but there is not one so deeply, so securely nestled among the 
hills, as the one of which I speak. Add the depth of the deepest of 
hese lakes to the height of the loftiest mountain that towers above us, 
nd you may then form some idea 01 the deep seclusion of this forgot- 
en valley. Norah was the prettiest girl in the little village: she was 
the pride of her old father and mother, and the admiration of every 
youth who beheld her. There was but one spring of water in this val- 
ley; it was a little well of the brightest and clearest water ever seen, 
-which bubbled up from the golden sand, and then lay calmly sleeping 
\n a basin of the whitest marble. From this basin there did not appear 
to be any outlet; the water ran into it incessantly, but no one could 
detect that any part of it escaped againl It was a Fairy Well! There 
Was a tradition concerning it which had, time out of mind, been handed 
down from parent to child. It was covered with a huge stone, which, 
though apparently very heavy, could be removed with ease by the hand 
Of the most delicate female; and it was said to be the will of the fairy 
who presided over it, that all the young girls of the village should go 
thither every evening after sunset, remove the stone, and take from the 
marble basin as much water as would be sufficient for the use of each 
family during the ensuing day: above all, it was understood to be the 
fairy's strict injunction, that each young maiden, when she had filled 
her pitcher, should carefully replace the stone; for if at any time thU 
were neglected, the careless maiden would not only bring ruisr en aer- 



•elf, but likewise on sll the inhabitants of the valley; and if tka 
morning sun ever ishone upon the water, inevitable destruction wosil 
fcllow." The remainder of tlie story is given in the Ballad.] 



Near Erin's western coast, of yore, 
There was a deep romantic vale ; 

The loveliest on her island shore ! 
So says the legendary tale. 

And scatter'd on its verdant hed, 

A little rustic hamlet rose ; 
Where peasant swains sequester'd led 

A hlissful life of calm repose. 

O'erhung hy mountains high and wild ! 

And shaded 'midst a tliick'ning wood ; 
Their lowly simple dwellings smil'd, 

In this secluded solitude. 

Sweet gentle Norah was most fair : — 
Her father and her mother's pride! 

And like a beauteous lily there 

She grew — and none her charms denied. 

The cottage where her parents dwell'd, 
Surrounded by luxuriant green, 

Fov rural neatness far excell'd 
All others in the village scene. 

The honey-suckle's twining wreath, 
By Norah nurs'd — its walls array'd ; 

And sweet wild flowers bloom 'd beneathj, 
The culture of this artless maid. 

Here was one well of waters bright, 
So pure that angels there might sip! 

As clear as e'er met human sight, — 
Or ever cool'd a mortal lip. 



IRISH BALLADS. 61 

In marble basin there it lay ; 

Soft bubbling up from golden sands. 
Whence came its source no tongue could say, 

Save from the power of fairy hands. 

A voice of olden time declar'd — 

'Twas form'd by some unearthly spell. 

And all within the vale rever'd 

This magic spring — "the fairy well." 

Above it rose a shading stone, 

Which, though of pond'rous weight and size, 
The gentlest female touch alone 

Its massive bulk with ease could rise. 

Tradition pass'd from man to man, 

(Since time — from memory's page decay'd,) 

That thus the fairy's mandate ran — 
Who o'er its crystal waters sway'd : 

It was her firm command — and will, 
That none (till evening's ray had fled) 

Should seek the well, or dare to fill 
Their pitchers from its magic bed. 

But when the sunset's parting glow, 

In western skies no longer shone — 
Then each young village girl could go — 

And, fearless, move the mystic stone. 

One strict injunction, too, she gave,— 

That as each maiden fin d her vase, 
Before she turn'd the fount to leave, 

With caution should the stone : 



For if the morning sunbeam play'd 
On the uncover'd limpid spring, 

The folly of the careless maid 
Would ruin to the valley bring. 






Full oft — -with pitcher in her hand, 

And flow'rets in her raven hair; 
Warbling the music of her land ! 

Went Norah— tripping lightly there. 

In innocence and beauty, both, 

To be belov'd — the maid was form'd ! 

And to the valley came a youth — 

Whose heart, her charms, her virtue warm'd. 

A soldier he — in armour clad ; 

One who, though young, had seen the world ! 
And often bared a warrior's blade, 

When warfare's banner was unfurl'd. 

Oft with the stranger Norah walk'd — 
(In shady pathways wild and lone,) 

And he of brighter regions talk'd, 
That rural life had never known. 

But could there be a happier scene, 

Than in that lovely spot retir'd 1 
That blooming valley, ever green, 

With all that nature's wants requir'd. 

With tales of love her heart he won ! 

And when unto the well she hied, 
(Soon as went down the setting sun,) 

Coolin was ever — at her side. 

But when her parents found she lov'd 

This stranger youth — their wrath was sore { 

Their child's attachment they reprov'd, 
And warn'd her ne'er to meet him more ! 

She wept, yet promis'd to obey ; 

And when the cloud of evening fell* 
In sadness went a diff 'rent way, 

That led her to the fairy well. 



IBISH BAl LAD8. & 

And there she sate — the well heside, 
As o'er the vale the night-shade stole ; 

While bitterly the maiden cried — 
For saddening sorrow swell'd her soul 1 

From heaven's bright vault the moonlight's gleam 
Glanc'd downward on the fountain clear ; 

O'er Norah's cheek its radiance came — 
And chang'd to pearl her falling tear. 

" Oh come not here — again to me," 
(Exclaim'd the maid in sorrow deep !) 

" Alas, why did I ever see 
One — who has taught me how to weep ?" 

" Ah dearest Norah ! say not so ; 

My love, my life are only tlune ! 
Could I have caus'd thy tear to flow ? 

Depart with me — nor thus repine." 

The maid replied — " No ! never — no ! 

With thee I've promis'd not to meet : 
But yet, where'er I turn or go, 

Still dost thou trace my wandering feet." 

She rose — nor yet the tear was dried, 
That late stole down her pallid cheek; 

Her cares to lull, the soldier tried, 
And soothingly began to speak. 

Her hand the lover fondly grasp'd, 

Like one who felt a pang to part ; 
And then with warm affection clasp'd 

The maiden to his throbbing heart. 

Now treading swift the beaten track, 
They left the well — that lonely spot ! 

Thus spoke the youth while pacing back 
With Norah to her father's cot ; 






" Thy parents will forgive," said he, 
" Our close attachment, when they 

The tender love I bear to thee ; 
To me thy hand they will bestow ! 



«* Thou could 'st not leave for scenes more gsjr. 
Them, and thy native valley too : 

Oh then, thy Coolin here shall stay ! 
What would he not resign for you ? 

" Thy smile a desert's gloom would cheer 
And make it seem enchanting, bright; 

And sow, my love, thy home is near ; 
Give me that smile, and so good night." 

The maiden did as he requir'd ; 

In hope of bliss, no more she wept. 
Then softly to her couch retir'd, 

And wrapt in pleasing vision slept. 

When lo — as from some frightful dream 
Of hideous fiends — or demons fell — 

She started with a shrill wild scream 1 
And loud exclaimed — " the well ! the weE f 

" I have not fix'd the shading stone, 

Perhaps as yet 'tis not too late ; 
The morning beam not yet hath shone ! 

I'll haste — I'll run and know my fate." 

Along the well-known path she flew, 
(With swiftness like a hunted roe:—) 

The eastern hills rose on her view, 
And in the sun-rise seem'd to glow 1 

As one by magic power subdued — 

(Or by a spectral sight amaz'd) 
At length — she like a statue stood, 

As downward on the well she 



IRISH BALLADS. 

The bright unclouded morning r&? 

Its light upon the spot hath cast. 
The spring, that once so gentle lay, 

Was rushing now — a torrent vast I 

Each moment wider o'er the vale 
Its tearful waters foaming spread : 

As, with a wild and maniac wail, 
The peasants from the village fled. 

But hapless Norah ! void of fear, 
Still stood upon the hillock path ; 

Unconscious of her danger near, — 
She watch'd the flood in swelling -wt&iiti 

As fierce pour'd on the angry tide, 
Close to the maid her lover ran : 
My parents save — oh haste" — she cried! 
" From thee my only woes began !" 

She fell— he rais'd the prostrate fair, 

And bore her up a rising hill ; 
But the white torrent even there, — 

Deep, vengeful, rolling, followed stilL 

Swift round the wooded height it rose, 
Which lesser yet — and lesser grew ; 

And soon the refuge that they chose, 
Was sunk — and nearly lost to view ! 

" Oh, could we reach yon mountain's brow j 
Poor Coolin to his Norah cries 1 

" But hope of life is vanish'd now ; 
Behold, the fearful floods arise ! 

" Alas ! sweet girl — my own dear love ! 

This dismal fate could I foresee ; — 
Far from thee would I fly — nor prove 

The cause of thy dire destiny." 



Unaw'd by death w_no vain alarms 

The lovers felt — but watch'd their doom i 

Clasp 'd sadly in each other's arms, 
They glanc'd down on the surgy tomb ! 

Soon to their feet upsprung the flood, 
Its ruthless waters whelm'd them o'er; 

The less'ning spot on which they stood 
Above the waves was seen no more ! 

Gone was the valley of the well : — 
The fairy's deed of wrath was done ! 

The foaming waters ceas'd to swell, 
And soft in tranquil calmness shone. 

But never shall sweet Norah wake, — 
Or Coolin, from their slumber deep ! 

Now laid beneath Killarney's lake, 
The maiden and her lover sleep. 



ARRANMORE. 

BY THOMAS MOORE. 

[" The inhabitants of Arranmore are still persuaded that in a cleei 
day they can see from this coast Hy Brasail, ->r the Enchanted Island, 
the Paradise of the Pagan Irish, and concerning which they rolate a 
number of romantic stories." — Beaufort's Ancient Topography & 
Irtiand.] 

Oh ! Arranmore, loyed Arranmore, 

How oft I dream of thee ; 
And of those days when, by thy shore, 

I wander'd young and free. 
Full many a path I've tried, since thea. 

Through pleasure's flow'ry maze, 
But ne'er could find the bliss again 

I felt in those sweet days. 



IRISH BALLADS. 

flcrw blithe upon thy breezy cliffs 

At sunny morn I've stood, 
"With heart as bounding as the skiffs 

That danced along thy flood ; 
Or when the western wave grew bright 

With daylight's parting wing, 
Have sought that Eden in its light, 

Which dreaming poets sing. 

That Eden, where th* immortal brave 

Dwell in a land serene, — 
Whose bowers beyond the shining wave, 

At sunset oft are seen ; 
Ah, dream, too full of saddening truth ! 

Those mansions o'er the main 
Are like the hopes I built in youth, 

As sunny and as vain 1 



THE ISLAND OF ATLANTIS. 

BY THE REV. G. CROLT. 



[" For at that time the Atlantic Sea was navigable, and had an island 
before that mouth which is culled hy you the pillars of Hercules. Bat 
this island was greater than both Libya arid all Asia together, aud af- 
forded an easy passage to other neighbouring islands, as it was easy 
to pass from those islands to all the Continent which borders on this 
Atlantic Sea. * * * But, in succeeding times, prodigious earth- 
quakes and deluges taking place, and bringing with them desolation 
in the space of one day and night, all that warlike race of Athenian* 
was at once merged under the earth ; and the Atlantic island itself btf 
ing absorbed in the sea, entirely disappeared." — Plato's Timctus.] 

Oh ! thou Atlantic, dark and deep, 

Thou wilderness of waves, 
Where all the tribes of earth might sleep 

In their uncrowded graves ! 

The sunbeams on thy bosom wake, 

Yet never light thy gloom ; 
The tempests burst, yet never shake 

Thy depths, thou miithty tomb 1 



Thou thing of mystery, stern and drear. 
Thy secrets who hath toll ?-.. 

The warrior and his sword are there, 
The merchant and his gold. 

There lie their myriads in thy pall. 

Secure from steel and storm ; 
And he, the feaster on them all, 

The canker-worm. 

Yet on this wave the mountain's brow- 
Once glow'd in morning's beam ; 

And, like an arrow from the bow, 
Out sprang the stream : 

And on its bank the olive grove, 

And the peach's luxury, 
And the damask rose — the nightbird's 

Perfumed the sky. 

Where art thou, proud Atlantis, now ? 

Where are thy bright and brave? 
Priest, people, warriors' living flow ? 

Look on that wave 1 

Crime deepen'd on the recreant land, 

Long guilty, long forgiven ; 
There power uprear'd the bloody band, 

There scoff 'd at Heaven. 



The word went forth — the word of 
The judgment-thunders pealed ; 

The fiery earthquake blazed below ; 
Its doom was seal'd. 

Now on its halls of ivory 

Lie giant weed and ocean slime, 
Burying from man's and angel's eyo 

The land of crime. 



IRISH BALLADS* OH 

TEE HAUNTED SPKING. 

BY SAMUEL LOVER. 

pt Is said, Fays have the power to assume various shapes for tht 
purpose of luring mortals into Fairyland; hunters seem to have been 
particularly the objects of the lady tarries' fancies.} 

Gaily through the mountain glen 

The hunter's horn did ring, 
As the milk-white doe 
Escaped his how, 

Down by the haunted spring. 
In vain his silver horn he wound, — 

'Twas echo answer'd back ; 
For neither groom nor baying hound 

Were on the hunter's track ; 
In vain he sought the milk-white doe 
That made him stray, and 'scaped his bcw, 
Eor, save himself, no living thing 
Was by the silent haunted spring. 

The purple heath-bells, blooming fair. 
Their fragrance round did fling, 
As the hunter lay 
At close of day, 
Down by the haunted spring. 
A lady fair, in robe of white, 

To greet the hunter came ; 
She kiss'd a cup with jewels bright, 

And pledged him by his name ; 
" Oh, lady fair," the hunter cried, 
" Be thou my love, my blooming bride, 
" A bride that well might grace a king ! 
"Fair lady of the haunted spring." 

io the fountain clear she stoop'd, 
And forth she drew a ring ; 

And that loved Knight 

His faith did plight 
.Uown by the haun ted spring. 



But since that day his chase did stray, 

The hunter ne'er was seen, 
And legends tell, he now doth dwell 

Within the hills so green;* 
But still the milk-white doe appears, 
And wakes the peasants' evening fears, 
While distant bugles faintly ring 
Around the lonely haunted spring. 



ALICE AND UNA. 
a tale of " eeirt)-4H-eic."t 

BY D. F. M'CARTHY. 

[The pass of CMm-an-eich (the path of the deer) lies to the south- 
west of Inchageela, in the direction of Bantry Bay. The tourist wiD 
commit a grievous error if lie omit to visit it. Perhaps in no part at 
the kingdom is there to be found a place so utterly desolate and 
gloomy. A mountain has been divided by some convulsion of nature; 
and the narrow pass, about two miles in length, is overhung on either 
Bide by perpendicular nwsses clothed in wild ivy and underwood, with, 
occasionally, a stunted yew tree or arbutus growing among them. At 
every step advance seems impossible — some huge rock jutting out 
into the path ; and, on sweeping round it, seeming to conduct only to 
gome barrier still more insurmountable ; while from all sides rush down 
the "wild fountains,'' and, forming for themselves a rugged channel 
make their way onward — the first tributary offering to the gentle and 
fruitful Lee: 

" Here, amidst heaps 

Of mountain wrecks, on either side thrown high, 

The wide-spread traces of its watery might, 

The toi'tuous channel wound.'' 
Nowhere has nature assumed a mo? j appalling aspect, or manifested s 
more stern resolve to dwell in her own loneliness and grandeur undis- 
turbed by any living thing ; for even the binls seem to shun a solitude 
so awful, and the hum of bee or chirp of grasshopper is never heard 
within its precincts — Bull's Ireland, vol. i., p. 117.] 

Ah 1 the pleasant days have vanished, ere our wretched 
doubtings banished 

• Fays and fairies, are supposed to have their dwelling places within 
eitf xreen hills. 
t Cfeim-an-eich (the path of the deerX 



IRISH BALLADS. 81 

All the graceful spirit people, children of the earth and 

sea — 
They whom often, in the olden time, when earth was 

fresh and golden, 
Every mortal could behold in haunted tower, and flower, 

and tree — 
They have vanished, they are banished — ahl hownad the 

loss for thee, 

Lonely Ceim-an-eich ! 

Still some scenes are yet enchanted by the charms that 

Nature granted, 
Still are peopled, still are haunted by a graceful spirit 

band. 
Peace and Beauty have their dwelling where the infant 

streams are welling — 
Where the mournful waves are knelling on Glengariff '» 

coral strand ; * 
Or where, on Killarney's mountains, Grace and Terr r 

smiling stand, 

Like sisters, hand in hand ! 

Still we have a new romance in fire-ships, through the 

tamed seas glancing, 
And the snorting and the prancing of the mighty engine 

steed ; 
Still, Astolpho-like, we wander through the boundless 

azure yonder, 
Realizing what seemed fonder than the magic tales we 

read- 
Tales of wild Arabian wonder, where the fancy all is 

freed — 

Wilder far, indeed ! 

Now that Time, with womb unfolded, shakes the palsy 

from her old head, 
Cries, " Oh ! Earth, thou hast no soul dead, but a livii._ 

soul hast thoul" 

• In the bay of Glengariff, and towards the N.W. parts of Bantry 

Bay, thev dredge up large quantities of rural Mod Smith's Cobs 

toI. i.. p. 286. 



Could we — could we only see all, blended with the lost 

Ideal, 
These the glories of the Keal, happy were the old world 

now — 
Woman in its fond believing — man with iron arm and 

brow — ■ 

Faith and Work its vow 1 



Yes! the Past shines clear and pleasant, and there's 

glorv in the Present ; 
And the future, like a crescent, lights the deepening 

sky of Time ; 
And that sky will yet grow brighter, if the Worker and 

and the Writer 
Err not — as they surely might err — but unite in bonds 

sublime, 
With two glories shining o'er them, up the coming years 

they'll climb 

Earth's great evening as its prime 1 

With a sigh for what is. fading, but, oh ! earth, with no 

upbraiding, 
For we feel that time is braiding newer, fresher flowers ' 

for thee — 
We will speak, despite our grieving, words of Loving 

and Believing, 
Tales we vowed when we were leaving awful Ceim-an- 

eich — 
Where the sever'd rocks resemble fragments of a frozen 

sea, 

And the wild deer flee ! 



Tis the hour when flowers are shrinking, when tho 
weary sun is sinking, 

And his thirsty steeds are drinking in the cooling Wes- 
tern sea ; 

When young Maurice lightly goeth, where the tinj 
streamlet floweth. 



IRISH BALLADS. 63 

And the struggling moonlight showeth 'where his path 

must be — 
Path whereon the wild goats wander fearlessly and free 
Through dark Ceim-an-eich. 

A.s a hunter, danger daring, with his dogs the brown 
moss sharing, 

Little thinking, little caring, long a wayward youth lived 
he; 

But his bounding heart was regal, and he looked as looks 
the eagle, 

And he flew as flies the beagle, who the panting stag 
doth see — 

Lore, who spares a fellow-archer, long had let him wan- 
der free 

Through wild Ceim-an-eich 1 

But at length the hour drew nigher wnen his heart 

should feel that fire ; 
Up the mountain high and higher had he hunted from 

the dawn ; 
Till the weeping fawn descended, where the earth and 

ocean blended, 
And with hope its slow way wended to a little grassy 

lawn — 
It is safe, for gentle Alice to her saving breast hatb 

drawn 

Her almost sister fawn. 

Alice was a chieftain's daughter, and, though many 

suitors sought her, 
She so loved Glengariff's water that she let her lovers 

pine; 
Her eye was beauty's palace, and her cheek an ivory 

chalice, 
Through which the blood of Alice gleamed soft as rosiest 

wine, 
An<i her lips like lusmore blossoms which the -fairies 

intertwine, f 

And her heart a golden mine. 

fThe lusmore (or fairy cap)— literally, the great herb.— Digital* 



C4 BOOK OF 

She wk2 gentler u(( j s hy er than the sweet fawn that 
stood (■, » ner, 

And her eyes emit a fire soft and tender as her soul ; 

I<ove's dewy light doth drown her, and the braided locks 
that crown her 

Than autumn's trees are browner, when the golden sha- 
dows roll 

Through the forests in the evening, when cathedral tur- 
rets toll, 

And the purple sun advanceth to its goal. 

Her cottage was a dwelling all regal homes excelling, 
But, ah ! beyond the telling was the beauty round it 

spread — 
The wave and sunshine playing, like sisters- each array- 
ing — 
Far down the sea-plants swaying upon their coral bed 
As languid as the tresses on a sleeping maiden's head, 
When the summer breeze is dead. 

Need we say that Maurice loved her, and that no blast 

reproved her 
When her throbbing bosom moved her to give the heart 

she gave ; 
That by dawn-light and by twilight, and oh ! blessed 

moon, by thy light — 
When the twinkling stars on high light the wanderer 

o'er the wave — 
His steps unconscious led him where Glengariff 's waters 

lave 

Each mossy bank and cave. 

He thitherward is wending — o'er the vale is night de- 
scending — 

Quick his step, but quicker sending his herald thoughts 
before ; 

By rocks and streams before him, proud and hopeful on 
he bore him ; 

One star was shining o'er him — in his heart of hearta 
two more — 

And two other eyes, far brighter than a human head 
e're wore, 

Unseen were shinine o'er. 



IRISH BALLADS. 

These eyes are not of woman — no brightness merely 

human 
Could, planet-like, illumine the place in which they 

shone ; 
But nature's bright works vary — there are beings, light 

and airy, 
Whom mortal lips call fairy, and Una she is one — 
Sweet sisters of the moonbeams and daughters of the 

sun, 

Who along the curling cool waves run. 

As summer lightning dances amid the heavens' expanses, 
Thus shone the burning glances, of those flashing fairy 

eyes; 
Three splendours there were shining — three passions 

intertwining — 
Despair and hope combining their deep contrasted dyes, 
With jealousy's green lustre, as troubled ocean vies 
With the blue of summer skies ! 

She was a fairy creature, of heavenly form and feature — 

Not Venus' self could teach her a newer, sweeter 
grace — 

Not Venus' self could lend her an eye so dark and 
tender, 

Half softness and half splendour, as lit her lily face ; 

And, as the stars' sweet motion maketh music through- 
out space, 

There was music in her face. 

But when at times she started, and her blushing lips were 

parted, 
And a pearly lustre darted from her teeth so ivory white. 
You'd think you saw the gliding of two rosy clouds di» 

viding, 
And the crescent they were hiding gleam forth upon 

your sight — 
Through these lips, as through the portals of a heaven 

pure and bright, 

Came a breathing of delight 1 



36 BOOK Of 

She had seen young Maurice lately walk forth so proud 

and stately, 
And tenderly and greatly she loved hin? from that hour ; 
Unseen she roamed beside hirn, to guard him and to 

guide him, 
But now she must divide him from her human rival's 

power. 
Ah ! Alice — gentle Alice ! the storm begins to lower 
That may crush GlengarhT's llower ! 

The moon that late was gleaming, as calm as cliildhoo<i ; a 

dreaming, 
Is hid, and, wildly screaming, the stormv -winds arise ; 
And the clouds flee quick and faster before their sullen 

master, 
And the shadows of disaster are falling from the skies — 
Strange sights and sounds are rising — but Maurice be 

thou wise, 

Nor heed the tempting cries. 

If ever mortal needed that council, surely he did; 
But the wile has now succeeded — he wanders from his 

path — 
The cloud its lightning sendeth, and its boix the stout oak 

rendeth, 
And the firm arbutus bendeth in the whirls »» J, as a 

lath! 
Now and then the moon looks out, but, alas ! its pale 

face hath 

A dreadful look of wrath. 

In vain his strength he squanders — at each step he 

wider wanders — 
Now he pauses — now he ponders where his present path 

may lead ; 
And, as he round is gazing, he sees — a sight amazing ! — 
beneath him, calmly grazing, a noble jet-black steed. _ 
-•Now, Heaven be praised!" cried Maurice, " thi» ia 

fcrlraiate indeed — 

From this labyrinth I'm freed I" 



IRISH BALLAD8. 6J 

Upon its back he leapeth, but a shudder through him 

creepeth, 
As the mighty monster sweepeth like a torrent through 

the dell ; 
His mane, so softly flowing, is now a meteor blowing, 
And his burning eyes are glowing with the light of an 

inward hell — 
And the red breath of his nostrils, like steam where the 

lightning fell, 

And his hoofs have a thunder knell ! 



What words have we for painting the momentary fai/Xins 
That the rider's heart is tainting, as decay doth tasnt a 

corse ? 
But who will stoop to chiding, in a fancied courage 

priding, 
When we know that he is riding the fearful Phooka 

Horse ? * 
Ah ! his heart beats quick and faster than the smitinga 

of remorse 

As he sweepeth through the wild grass and 
gorse ! 



As the avalanch comes crashing, 'mid the scattered 

streamlets splashing, 
Thus backward wildly dashing, flew the horse through 

Ceim-an-eich — 
Through that glen so wild and narrow, back he darted 

like an arrow — 
Round, round by Gougane Barra, and the fountains of 

the Lee, 
O'er the "giant's grave" he leapeth, and he seems to 

own in fee 

The mountains and the rivers and the sea ! 



* For a description of the Phooka, see Introduction to " The Fata 
Both el Losh labia, " p. 42. 



From his flashing hoofs who shall lock the eagle home* 

of Malloc.* 
When he bounds, as bounds the Mialloch f in its wild 

and murmuring tide ? 
But as winter leadeth Flora, or the night leads on 

Aurora, 
Or as shines green Glashenglora % along the black 

hill's side — 
Thus, beside that demon monster, white and gentle as a 

bride, 

A tender fawn is seen to glide. 

It is the fawn that fled him, and that late to Alice led 

him — 
But now it does not dread him, as it feigned to do 

before, 
When down the mounting gliding, in that sheltered 

meadow hiding — 
It left his heart abiding by wild Glengariff's shore — 
For it was a gentle Fairy who the fawn's light form 

wore, 

And who watched sweet Alice o'er. 

But the steed is backward prancing where late it was 
advancing, 

And his flashing eyes are glancing, like the sun upon 
Loch Foyle— 

The hardest granite crushing, through the thickest bram- 
bles brushing — 

Now like a shadow rushing up the sides of Slieve-na- 
goil!§ 



•" Wildly from Malloc the eagles are screaming." — Callanau's 

GOCGANE BaRRA. 

+ Mialloch, • the murmuring river" at Glengariff. — Smith's Coek. 

% Glashenglora, a mountain torrent, which finds its way into the 
Atlantic ocean through Gleneraritf, in the west of the county of Cork. 
The name, literally translated, signifies " the noisy green "water."— 
Barry's Songs of Ireland, p. 173. 

§ The most remarkable and beautiful mountain at Glengariff is thb 
noble conical one whose ancient name is Sliabh-na-goil(" the niouaUir, 



IBISH BALLADS D»- 

And the fawn beside him gliding o'er the rough and 

broken soil, 

Without fear and without toil. 

Through woods, the sweet birds' leaf home, he rusheth 

to the sea foam — 
Long, long the fairies' chief home, when the summer 

nights are cool, 
And the blue sea like a Syren, with its waves the 6teed 

environ, 
Which hiss like furnace iron when plunged within a 

pool, 
Then along among the islands where the water nymphs 

bear rule, 

Through the bay to Adragool. 

Now he rises o'er Bearhaven, where he hangeth like a 

raven — 
Ah ! Maurice, though no craven, how terrible for thee ? 
To see the misty shading of the mighty mountains 

fading, 
And thy winged fire-steed wading through the clouds 

as through a sea ! 
Now he feels the earth beneath him — he is loosen'd — 

he is free, 

And asleep in Ceim-an-eich. 

Away the wild steed leapeth, while his rider calmly 

sleepeth 
Beneath a rock which keepeth the entrance to the glen, 
Which standeth like a castle, where are dwelling lord 

and vassal, 
Where within are wine and wassail, and without are 

warrior men — 

of the wild people.") The miserable, unimaginative epithet of " Sugar 
Loaf" lias here, as elsewhere, disgracefully usurped the fine old musi- 
cal names which our ancestors gave to their hills. It is to be hoped 
that the people, if they have ears, not to talk of affections, recollections, 
or imagination, will get rid of their " Sugar Loaves " (which, they may 
be sure, were made in a •• slave market") as soon as poaible, and call 
their mountains by the names their fathers gave them. 



70 BOOK OF 

Bat save the sleeping Maurice, this castle cliff had 
then 

No mortal denizen 1* 

Now Maurice is awaking, for the solid earth is shaking, 

And a sunny light is breaking through the slowly open- 
ing stone — 

Ind a fair page at the portal, crieth " Welcome, wel- 
come ! mortal, 

" Leave thy world (at best a short ill), for the pleasant 
world we own — 

" There are joys by thee untasted, there are glories yet 
unknown — 

" Come kneel at Una's throne." 



With a sullen sound of thunder, the great rock falls 
asunder, 

He looks around in wonder, and with ravishment awhile — 

For the air Ms sense is chaining, with as exquisite a 
paining, 

As when summer clouds are raining o'er a flowery In- 
dian isle — 

And the faces that surround him, oh ! how exquisite 
their smile, 

So free of mortal care and guile. 

These forms, oh ! they are finer — these faces are diviner 

Than Phidias even thine are, with all thy magic art ; 

For beyond a lover's guessing, and beyond a bard's ex- 
pressing, 

Is the face that truth is dressing with the feelings of the 
heart ; 

f vo worlds are there together — Earth and Heaven have 
each a part — 

And such, divinest Una, thou art ! 



• There is a preat square rock, literally resembling the description 
«s the test, which stands near the Glengariff entrance to the paae of 
#5m-an eich. 



IRISH BALLADS. U 

And then the dazzling lustre of the hall in which they 

muster — 
Where brightest djamonus cluster on the flashing walla 

around ; 
And the flying and advancing, and the sighing and the 

glancing, 
And the mu»e and the dancing on the flower-inwoven 

ground, 
And the laughing and the feasting, and the quaffing and 

the sound, 

In which their voices all are drowned. 

But the murmur now is hushing — there's a pushing and 

a rushing, 
There's a crowding and a crushing, through that golden, 

fairy place, 
Where a snowy veil is lifting, like the slow and silent 

shifting 
Of a shining vapour drifting across the moon's pale 

face — 
For there sits gentle Una, fairest queen of fairy race, 
In her beauty, and her majesty, and grace. 

The moon by stars attended, on her pearly throne 

ascended, 
Is not more purely splendid than this fairy-girted queen ; 
And when her lips had spoken, 'mid the charmed silence 

broken, 
You'd think yon had awoken in some bright Elysian 

scene ; 
For her voice than the lark's was sweeter, that sings in 

joy between 

The heavens and the meadows green. 

But her cheeks — ah ! what are roses ? What are clouds 

where eve reposes ? 
What are hues that dawn discloses ? to the blushes 

spreading there ; 
And what the sparkling motion of a star within the 

ocean, 



72 BOOK OF 

To the crystal soft emotion that her lustrous dark eyes 

wear ? 
And the tresses of a moonless and a starless night are 

fair 

To the blackness of her raven hair. 

"Ah ! Mortal, hearts have panted for what to thee is 

granted — 
To see the halls enchanted of the spirit world revealed ; 
And yet no glimpse assuages the feverish doubt that 

rages 
In the hearts of bards and sages wherewith they may be 

healed ; 
For this have pilgrims wandered — for this have votaries 

kneeled — 

For this, too, has blood bedewed the field. 

• And now that thou beholdest, what the wisest and tht 

oldest, 
What the bravest and the boldest, have never yet do 

scried — 
Wilt thou come and share our being, be a part of what 

thou'rt seeing, 
And flee, as we are fleeing, through the boundless ether 

wide? 
Or alonsr the silver ocean, or down deep where pearls 

hide ? 

And I, who am a queen, will be thy bride. 

" As an essence thou wilt enter the world's mysterious 
centre" — 

And then the fairy bent her, imploring to the youth — 

" Thou'lt be free of death's cold ghastness, and, with a 
comet's fastness, 

Thou can'st wander through the vastness to the Para- 
dise of Truth, 

Eaeh day a new joy bringing, which will never leave, 
in sooth, 

The slightest stab 1 of weariness and ruth." 



IRISH BALLADS. 73 

/ % he listened to the speaker, his heart grew weak and 
weaker — 

Ah ! memory go seek her, that maiden by the wave, 

Who with terror and amazement is looking from her 
casement, 

Where the billows at the basement of her nestled cottage 
rave 

At the moon, which struggles onward through the tem- 
pest, like the brave, 

And which sinks within the clouds as in a 
grave. 



All maidens will abhor us — and it's very painful for 

us 
To tell how faithless Maurice forgot his plighted vow ; 
He thinks not of the breaking oi the heart he late wa3 

seeking — 
He but listens to her speaking, and but gazes on her 

brow — 
And his heart has all consented, and his lips are ready 

now 

With the awful, and irrevocable vow. 



While the word is there abiding, lo I the crowd is now 

dividing, 
Amd, witli sweet and gentle gliding, in before him came 

a fawn ; 
It was the same that fled him, and that seemed so much 

to dread him. 
When it down in triumph led him to Glengariff 's grassy 

lawn, 
When, from rock to rock descending, to sweet Alice he 

was drawn, 

As through Ceim-an-eich he hunted from 
the dawn. 

The magic chain is broken — no fairy vow is spoken — 
From his trance he hath awoken, and once again is free j 



74 BOOK OF 

And gone is Una's palace, and vain the wild steed's 

malice, 
And again to gentle Alice down he wends through 

Ceim-an-eich : 
The moon is calmly shining 'over mountain, stream, 
and tree, 

And the ^tlk>w sea-piants glisten through 
the sea. 



The sun his gold is fliaging, the happy birds are singing, 

And bells are gaily ringing along Glengariff 's sea ; 

And crowds in many a galley to the happy marriage 
rally 

Of the maiden of the valley and the youth of Ceim-an- 
eich ; 

Old eyes with joy are weeping, as all ask, on bended 
knee, 

A blessing, gentle Alice, upon the? I 



BALLADS 



ILLUSTRATIVE Oi" THE SUPERSTITIONS At»» CtWrT0M3 Of 

IRELAND. 



THE FETCH. 

BY JOHN BANIM. 



[fn Ireland, a Fetch is the supernatural facsimile of some Individual, 
which comes to insure to its original, a happy longevity, or immediate 
dissolution. If seen in the morning, the one event is predicted; if In 
the evening, the other. — Banim.] 



The mother died when the child was hers, 

And left me her baby to keep ; 
I rocked its cradle the night and morn, 

Or, silent, hung o'er it to weep. 

'Twas a sickly child through its infancy, 

Its cheeks were so ashy pale ; 
Till it broke from my arms to walk in glcSf 

Out in the sharp, fresh gale. 

And then my little girl grew strong, 

And laughed the hours away ; 
Or sung me the merry lark's mountain song, 

Which he taught her at break of day. 



When she wreathed her hair in thicket bowers, 
With the hedge-rose and hare-bell blue, 

I called her my May, in her crown of flowers, 
And her smile so soft and new. 

And the rose, I thought, never shamed her cheek, 

But rosy and rosier made it ; 
And her eye of blue did more brightly break, 

Through the bluebell that strove to shade it. 

One evening I left her asleep in her smiles, 
And walked through the mountains lonely ; 

I was far from my darling, ah ! many long miles, 
And I thought of her, and her only 1 

She darkened my path, like a troubled dream, 

In that solitude far and drear ; 
I spoke to my child ! but she did not seem 

To hearken with human ear. 

She only looked with a dead, dead eye, 

And a wan, wan cheek of sorrow : 
I knew her Fetch ! — she was called to die, 

And she died upon the morrow. 



2lrj Be4rjn5e.* 

[The superstition of the Be4.1Tn5e is well known. Itis believed 
to he an unearthly attendant on certain ancient families in this coun- 
try.t and it is only seen or heard previous to the decease of some of its 
members. It appears in a variety of shapes, but usually as a small and 
beautiful woman, who. with a peculiarly mournful cry, bewails the mis- 
fortune about to fall upon the family she loves.] 

Fair Eveleen sat in her tower high, 
On a calm and silent night ; 

* The Panshee 
t " For the high Milesian race alone 
Ever flows the music of her woe." 

Mahout. 



IRISH BALLADS. 



And she <razed on the twinkling lamps of the sky, 
Thar bujr own blue eyes less bright. 



And the silver moonbeams bathed her brow, 
But her cheek was as cold and pale : 

"Dearmidh's fleet foot is loitering now— 
Ah ! whence is that dreadful wail 1" 



For wofully sad was the thrilling strain, 

Now borne upon the breeze ; 
And it fell on her brain like an icy chain, 

Ap'i her heart's blood began to freeze. 



And still as the dying pauses swept, 
In their wailing sounds of fear, 

The sobs and the plaints of one that wept 
Rose sadly upon her ear. 



It was the Be^nr^e ! and she came to tell 

A tale of sorrow and death ; 
For Dearmidh that night 'neath a rival fell, 

Upon Moin-mor's'* dreary heath. 



«■• <5>j/»h unearthly sounds !" poor Eveleen well 

rheir meaning could discover, 
For soon the morning sunbeams fell 

On her corse, beside her lover ! 



CUSHEEN LOO. 

SBUISLATED FKOM THE IKHK, 
BY J. 3. CALLANAN. 



[This song is supposed to hare been sung by a young bride, whe 

was forcibly detained in one of those forts which are so common is 
Ireland, and to which the good people are very fond of resorting . 
Under pretence of hushing her child to rest, she retired to tte oouiis 
margin of the fort, and addressed the burthen of her song to a young 
woman whom she saw at a short distance, and whom she requested to 
inform her husband of her condition, and to desire him to bring the 
steel knife to dissolve the enchantment.] 

Sleep my child ! for the rustling trees 
Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze, 
And fairy songs of sweetest note, 
Around us gently float. 

Sleep ! for the weeping flowers hare shed 
Their fragrant tears upon thy head, 
The voice of love hath sooth'd thy rest, 
And thy pillow is a mother's breast. 

Sleep my child 1 

Weary hath pass'd the time forlorn, 
Since to your mansion I was borne, 
Tho' bright the feast of its airy halls, 
And the voice of mirth resounds from its walls. 
Sleep my child ! 

Full many a maid and blooming bride 
Within that splendid dome abide, — 
And many a hoar and shrivell'd sage, 
And many a matron bow'd with age. 

Sleep my child 1 



I3T&** »a£LADS. 79 

Oh ! thou who hearest this song of fear, 
To the mourner's home these tidings bear. 
Bid him bring the knife of the magic blade, 
At whose lightning flash the charm will fade. 
Sleep my child ! 

Haste I for to-morrow's sun will see 
The hateful spell renewed for me ; 
Nor can I from that home depart, 
Till life shall ietTe my withering heart. 

Sleep my child ! 

eieep my child ! for the rustling treea, 
Stirr'd by the breath of summer breeze, 
And fairy songs of sweetest note, 
Around us gently float. 



THE BURIAL. 



BY THE BEV. JAMES WILLS. 

A faint breeze is playing with flowers on the hill, 
The blue vault of summer is cloudless and still ; 
And the Tale with the wild bloom of nature is gay, 
But the far hills are breathing a sorrowful lay 1 

As winds on the Clairseack's sad chords when they 

stream, 
As the voice of the dead on ttie mourner's dark dream ! 
Far away, far away, from gray distance it breaks, 
First known to the breast by the sadness it wakes 1 

Kow lower, now louder, and longer it mourns 
Now faintly it falls, and now fitful returns ; 
Now near, and now nearer, it swells on the ear, 
The wild ululua, the death song is near 1 



80 BOOK OF 

With slow steps, sad burthen, and wild uttered wail. 
Maid, matron, and cotter wind up from the vale j 
And loud lamentations salute the gray hill, 
Where their fathers are sleeping, the silent and still ! 

Wild, wildly that wail ringeth back on the air, 
From that lone place of tombs, as if spirits were there, 
O'er the silent, the still, and the cold they deplore, - 
They weep for the tearless, whose sorrows are o'er. 



THE O'NEILL. 

[Since this ballad was written, all necessary light has been thrown 
upon the character and exploits of Aodh O'Neill, by Mr. Mitchel in 
his most admirable and fearless life of that prince. To some of my 
readers, however, the original explanation given by the author of the 
ballad (in the Belfast Magazine) may be useful, and 1 therefore retain 
it with some abridgment. It is to the latter part of the tradition alluded 
to, that this poem owes its origin. " Hugh O'Neill, representative and 
chief of the powerful family of that name, in the year 1587, accepted of 
a patent from Queen Elizabeth, creating him Earl of Tir-owen; in the 
eyes of his kinsmen and followers this acceptance was an act of sub- 
mission, and the title itself a degradation ; The O'Neill being a royal 
name, and conferring on its holder kingly authority. The mark of 
favour bestowed by Elizabeth, was held by the Earl until 1595, in the 
spring of which year he suddenly called an assembly of the chiefs of 
his country, formally renounced the act of submission, and resumec 1 
the original distinguishing appellation of his forefathers — The O'Neill. 
The cause of this alteration in his conduct has been variously ac- 
counted for; but an old tradition, which is still cuirent in the country 
where he flourished, attributes it wholly to the interference of a super- 
natural agent. After relating in a simple style what is stated above, 
it tells that for three nights previous to the calling of the assembly, the 
Banshee, or guardian spirit of the family, was heard in his castle 
of Dungannon, upbraiding him with his submission, conjuring him to 
throw off the odious epithet with which his enemies had branded him, 
rousing him to a sense of his danger by describing the sufferings of 
wine of the neighbouring chiefs, charging him to arm, and promising 
him assistance."] 

" Can ought of glory or renown, 
" To thee from Saxon titles spring? 

•« Thy name a kingdom and a crown, 
*• Tir-owen's chieftain, Ulster's king!" 



IBISH BALLADS. SI 

These were the sounds that on the ear 

Of Tir-owen's startled Earl arose, 
That blanch'd his alter'd cheek with fear, 

And from his pillow chas'd repose. 

In vain was clos'd his weary eye, 

In vain his prayer for peaceful sleep, 

Still from a viewless spirit nigh, 
Broke forth, in accents loud and deep : 

" Can ought of glory or renown, 
" To thee from Saxon titles spring? 

" Thy name a kingdom and a crown, 
" Tir-owen's chieftain, Ulster's king 1 

*• Oft did thy eager youthful ear 

•'Bend to the tale of Thomond's shame, * 

" And, in thy pride of blood didst swear 
' ' To hold with life thy glorious name ! 

" Yet thou didst leave thy native land, 

"For honours on a foreign shore, 
" And for submission's purchas'd brand, 

" Barter'd the name thy fathers bore ! 

" Where are those fathers' glories gone? 

" The pride of ages that have been! 
" "While tamely bows their traitor son, 

" The vassal of a Saxon queen : 

"While still within a dungeon's walls, 
" Ardmira's fetter'd prince reclines, f 

" While I'Maoile for her chieftain calls, J 
" Who in a distant prison pines : 

• Tn the reign of Henry the Eighth, the palace of Cluan-road, near 
Ennis, in the county of Clare the magnificent, mansion of the chief o\ 
the O'Briens, was burned to the ground by those of his own blood, in 
revenge for his having accepted of the comparatively degrading title 
of Earl of Thomond. 

t Dogherty of Ardmir, wUo was seized and thrown into prison by 
the lord deputy Fitzwilliam. 

t OToole of I'Maoile, fath« to the wife of O'Neill, alto iaDriaone* 
by Fitzwilliam. 



BOOK OF 

■ '^hile from that corse, yet reeking warm, 
" O'er his own fields the life-streams flow, 

'* Well mayst thou start ! that mangled form 
*' Once was thy friend, Mac Mahoh Roe. * 

'* Forget'st thou that a vessel came 

" To Cineal'a strand, in gaudy pride, 
' Fraught with each store of valued name, 
" That nature gave or art supplied : 

No voice to hid the youth heware, 
" Of banquets by the Saxon spread; 
'He tasted, and the treacherous snare 
" Clos'd o'er the young O'Donnell's head, f 

Hopeless, desponding, still he lies, 
" No aid his griefs to soothe or end ; 
' And oft in vain his languid eyes 
" Turn bright'ning on his father's friend : 

** Who was that friend ? — a chief of power, 
" The guardian of a kingdom's weal, 
Tir-owen's pride and Ulster's flower, 
•'A prince, a hero, The O'Nkiu.! 

" He, at whose war-horn's potent blast, 
«' Twice twenty chiefs in battle tried, 

" Unsheath'd the sword in warlike haste, 
" And rang'd their thousands on his side. 

" But now he dreads the paths to tread, 
" That lead to honours, power, and fame ; 

"And stands, each nobler feeling dead, 
" Nameless, who own'd a monarch'* name. 



* Hiigh Roe Mac Mahon, chief of Monapchan, who was tried before 
FltzwUliam, by a jury of common soldiers, and butchered at his castle 
door. 

t O'Donnell, son of the chief cf TyrconneU, who was decoyed on 
board a vessel and canied prisoner to Dublin, where he was 
from his fourteenth until bis .-wentielh yeir, when he made 
rate effort to escape, and 6E3C2-" - te*S 



IRiSH BALLADS. tO 

•' Shall Ardmir's prince for ever groan, 
" And I'Maoile's chief still fetter'd lie ? 

" None for Mac Mahon's blood atone ? 
" Nought cheer O'Donnell's languid eye ? 

'• To thee they turn, on thee they rest : 
"Release the chain'd, revenge the dead, 

•' Or soon the halls thy sires possest, 
"Shall echo to a stranger's tread I 

'•And in the sacred chair of stone, * 
" The base Ne Gaveloc f shalt thou see 

" Receive the name, the power, the throne, 
" That once was dear as life to thee ! 

" Arise 1 for on his native plains 
" His father's warriors marshall'd round, — 

" O'Donnell, freed from Saxon chains, 
" Shall soon the signal trumpet sound: 

"And soon, thy sacred cause to aid, 

" The brave O'Cahan, % at thy call, 
" Shall brandish high the naming blade, 

" That filled the grasp of Cuie-na-gall: 

" Resume thy name, in arms arise, 
" Tear from thy breast the Saxon star, 

*' And let the coming midnight skies 
" Be crimson'd with thy fires of war 1 

" And bid around the echoing land 

" The war-horn raise thy vassal powers ; 
" And, once again, the Bloody Hand § 
" Wave on Dungannon's royal towers !" 

• The chair of stone on which the chiefs of the O'Neill's -were so- 
temly invested with the power and titles of chief of Tir-owen, and para- 
mount prince of Ulster. 

t Hugh O'Kial, illegitimate son of John, formerly chief of Tir-owen, 
Burnamed Ne Gaveloc, or the fettered, from his having been horn du. 
ring the captivity of his mother. 

JO'Cahanof Cinachta, descended from the fenous Cuie-na-gall, or the 
"Terror of the Stranger," who was celebrated for hU exploits agaiasf 
fco English. 

§ The bloody hand is the crest of the name of 0'N«ill. 



For well that wailing voice he 

And onward hurrying fast, 
O'er hills and dales impetuous flew, 

And reach'd his home at last. 

Beneath his wearied courser's hoof 
The trembling drawbridge clanga, 

And Desmond sees his own good roo^ 
But darkness o'er it hangs. 

He pass'd beneath the gloomy gate, 

No guiding tapers burn ; 
No vassals in the court-yard wait, 

To welcome his return. 

The hearth is cold in the lonely hall, 
No banquet decks the board ; 

No page stands ready at the call, 
To 'tend his wearied lord. 

But all within is dark and drear, 
No sights or sounds of gladness — 

Nought broke the stillness on the ear, 
Save a sudden burst of sadness. 

Then slowly swell'd the keener's strain 
With loud lament and weeping, 

For round a corse a mournful train 
The sad death-watch were keeping. 



Aghast he stood, bereft of power, 

Hope's fairy visions fled ; 
His fear's confirmed — his beauteous 
A His fair-hair'd bride — was dead 1 



IEI8H BALLADS. 

With guarded pace her seasons creep, 

"By slow decay expire ; 
The young above the aged weep, 

The son above the sire : 

21)0 Ctlri)4 ! lorn am I ! 
That death a backward course should hold, 
To smite the young, and spare the old. 



KATHLEEN'S FETCH. 



[The Fetch is supposed to he the exact form and resemhlance, as to 
air, stature features, and dress, of a certain person, who is soon to de- 
part this world. It is also supposed to appear to the particular friend 
of the doomed one, and to flit before him without any warning or inti- 
mation, but merely the mystery of the appearance at a place and time 
where and when the real being could not be or appear. It is most 
frequently thought to be seen when the fated object is about to die a 
sudden death by unforeseen means, and then it is said to be particularly 
disturbed and agitated in its motions. Unlike the superstition of the 
.Banshee,* there is no accounting for the coming of this forerun- 
ner of death ; there is no tracing it to any defined origin ; but that it 
does come, a shadowy pliantom of doom and terror, and often comes, 
Is firmly believed by our peasantry, and many curious stories and cir- 
cumstances are related to confirm the truth of the position Author's 

Note.3 



The reaper's weary task was done, 
And down to repose sunk the autumn sun ; 
And the crimson clouds, in the rich-hued west, 
Were folding like rose leaves round his rest. 
My heart was light, and I hummed a tune, 
As I hied me home by the harvest moon ; 
And I bless'd her soft and tender ray, 
That rose to lighten my lone pathway. 



Be4i}rJ5e« 



Then I thought on my Kathleen's winning smile, 
(And I felt my heart grow sad the while,) 
Of her cheek, like the fading rose-clouds glowing, 
Of her hair, like the dying sun-light flowing; 
And her words, like the song of a summer bird, 
And her air and step, like the fawn's, when stirred 
By the hunter's horn, as it boometh o'er 
The woody glens of the steep Sliabh-mor. 

The broad Lough Mask* beneath me lay, 
Like a sheet of foam in the silver ray ; 
And its yellow shores were round it rolled, 
As a gem enclosed by its fretted gold. 
And there, where the old oaks mark the spot, 
Arose my Kathleen's sheltered cot ; 
And 1 bounded on, for my hopes were high, 
Though still at my heart rose the boding sigh. 

The silver moon was veiled by a cloud, 
And the darkness fell on my soul like a shroud ; 
And a figure in white was seen afar, 
To flit on my path like a twinkling star. 
I rushed, I ran, — 'twas my Kathleen dear ; 
But why does she fly ? has she aught to fear ? 
I called, but in vain — like the fleeting beam, 
She melted away with the flowing stream. 

I came to her father's cottage door, 

But the sounds of wailing' were on his floor; 

And the keener's voice rose loud and wild, 

And a mother bewailed her darling child. 

My heart grew chill — I could not draw 

The latch : I knew 'twas her Fetch I saw ! 

Yes, Kathleen, fair Kathleen, that sad night died, 

The fond pulse of my soul, its hope, its pride 



* A large and beautiful lake, t)ounded ty <£j counties of May* «Bd 
Gal way. 



IRISH BALLADS. 



THE DOOM OF THE MIKROB. 



BY B. SIMMONS. 

[The superstition that whoever breaks a looking-glass Is destined 
to misfortune, is widelv entertained in Ireland. The. little story 
related in these verses in not anogetueiniiaginauve — Atranos'j Mote.] 

Fair Judith L,ee— a woful pair, 

Were steed and rider weary, 
When, winding down from mountains bare. 

By crag and fastness dreary, 
I first beheld her — where the path 

Resigned its sterner traces 
In a green depth of woods, like Wrath 

Subdued by Love's embraces. 

By tl.e oak-shadowed well she stood. 

Her rounded arms uplifted, 
To bind the curls whose golden flood 

Had from its fillets drifted, — 
Whilst stooping o'er the fount to fill 

The rustic urn beside her, 
Her face to evening's beauty still 

Imparting beauty wider. 

She told me of the road I missed — 

Gave me to drink — and even, 
At parting, waved the hand she kissed, 

White as a star in heaven ; 
But never smiled — though prompt and waTTM 

I paid, in duteous phrases, 
The tribute that so fair a form 

From minstrel ever raises. 

The gladness murmured to her cheeJs, 

Unfolded not its roses — 
That bluest morn will never break 

That in her eye reposes. 






Some gentle woe, with dovelike winjjt, 

Had o'er her cast a shadow. 
Soft as the sky of April flings 

Upon a vernal meadow. 

In vain, with venial art, to sound 

The springs of that affliction, 
I hinted of my craft — renowned 

For omen and prediction : 
In vain assuming mystic power, 

Her fortune to discover, 
I guessed its golden items o'er, 

And closed them with— a lover. 

It failed for once — that final word — 

A maiden's brow to brighten, 
The cloud within her soul unstirred, 

Refused to flash or lighten. 
She felt and thanked the artifice, 

Beneath whose faint disguising 
I would have prompted hope and peace, 

With accents sympathising. 

But no — she said (the while her face 

A summer-wave resembled, 
Outsparkling from some leafy place, 

Then back to darkness trembled) — 
For her was neither living hope 

Nor loving heart allotted, 
Joy had but drawn her horoscope 

For Sorrow's hand to blot it. 

Her words made silvery stop — for lu". 

Peals of sweet laughter ringing! 
And though that wood's green solitudes 

Glad village-damsels winging 1 
As thongh that mirth some feeling jarred, 

The maiden, pensive-hearted. 
Murmured farewell, and through the dell 

In loneliness departed. 



IRISH BAI.LAD8. 

With breeze- tossed locks and gleaming feet, 

And store of slender pitchers, 
O'er the dim lawns, like rushing fawns, 

Come the fair Water-fetchers ; 
And there, while round that well's gray oak 

Cluster'd the sudden glory, 
Fair Judith Lee, from guileless lips 

I heard thy simple story. 

Of humble lot — the legends wild 

Believed by that condition, 
Had mingled with her spirit mild 

Their haunting superstition, 
Which grew to grief, when o'er her yonti> 

.me uoom descended, spoken 
On those who see beneath their touch 

The fatal Mirror broken. 

«' Never in life to prosper more " 

And so, from life sequestred, 
With dim forebodings brooding o'er 

The shafted fate that festered 
Deep in the white depths of her soul, 

The patient girl awaited 
Ill's viewless train — her days to pain 

And duty consecrated. 

At times she deemed the coming woe 

Through others' hearts would reach her, 
Till every tie that twined her low, 

Upon the lap of Nature 
Her once-loved head unwatched, unknowa 

Shouiu BiuK. in meek dejeuuoa, 
Hushed as some Quiet carved in stone 

Above entombed affection. 

E'en her young heart's instinctive wast 

To be beloved and loving, 
Inexorably vigilant, 

She checked with cold reproving. 



£0 



For still she saw, should tempests frown, 
That treacherous anchor sever, 

And Hope's whole priceless freight go down 
A shipwrecked thing for ever. 

So pined that gracious form away, 

Her bliss-fraught life untasted ; 
A breeze-harp whose divinest voice 

On lonely winds is wasted. 
And sucli the tale to me conveyed 

In laughing tones or lowly, 
As still that rosy crowd was swayed 

By mirth or melancholy. 

I've seen since then the churchyard nook. 

Where Judith Lee lies sleeping • 
The wild ash loves it, and a brook 

Through emerald mosses creeping ; 
For that lest maiden ever there 

A low sweet mass is singing, 
While all around, like nuns at prayer. 

Pale water-flowers are springing. 

Poor Girl ! — I've thought, as there reclined* 

I drank the sunset's glory 

Thy tale to meditative mind 

Is but an allegory ; 
Once shatter inborn Truth divine, 

The soul's transparent mirror, 
Where Heaven's reflection loved to shine, 

And what remains but terror ? 

Terror and Woe ; Faith's holy face 

No more our hearts relieving — 
Fades from the past each early grace 

The future brings but grieving ; 
However fast life's blessings fall 

In lavish sunshine o'er us, 
That Broken Glass distorts them all 

Whose fragments glare before u° 



IRISH BALLAD8. 9\ 



THE FAIRY NURSE. 

Br EDWARD WALSH. 

[A girl is supposed to be led into the fairy fort of Llsroe, where sha 
sees her little brother, who had died about a week before, laid in a rich 
cradle, and a young woman singing as she rocks him to sleep. The 
author has not stated whether there be any meaning in the refrain 
*' Shuheen sho, lulo lo !'' which he has introduced after every line. 
And as there is no Dictionary of the fairy language yet published, I 
am unable to satisfy myself or the public on that point. I have taken 
the liberty to omit it, except at the end of each stanza.] 

Sweet babe ! a golden cradle holds thee, 
And soft the snow-white fleece enfolds thee ; 
In airy bower I'll watch thy sleeping, 
Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping 
Shuheen sho, lnlo lo 1 

When mothers languish broken-hearted, 
When young wives are from husbands parted 
Ah ! little think the keeners lonely, 
They weep some time-worn fairy only. 
Shuheen sho, lulo lo ! 

Within our magic halls of brightness, 
Trips many a foot of snowy whiteness ; 
Stolen maidens, queens of fairy — 
And kings and chiefs a SlU4J S)4 * airy 
Shuheen sho, lulo lo ! 

Rest thee, babe ! I love thee dearly, 
And as thy mortal mother nearly ; 
Ours is the swiftest steed and proudest, 
That moves where the tramp of the host is loudest. 
Shuheen sho, lulo lo 1 

Rest thee, babe ! for soon thy slumbers 
Shall flee at the magic Coei S]4'sf numbers ; 
In airy Dower I'll watch thy sleeping, 
Where branchy trees to the breeze are sweeping. 
Shuheen sho, lulo lo I 

Fairy host. t Koelshie's— Fairy Muaie 



CQ 



EARL DESMOND AND THE Be^nje.' 

Now cheer thee on, my gallant steed, 

There's a weary way before us — 
Across the mountain swiftly speed, 

For the storm is gathering o'er us. 

Away, away, the horseman rides ; 

His bounding steed's dark form 
Seem'd o'er the soft black moss to glide— 

A spirit of the storm ! 

Now, rolling in the troubled sky, 

The thunder's loudly crashing ; 
And through the dark clouds, driving by, 

The moon's pale light is flashing. 

In sheets of foam the mountain flood ' 

Comes roaring down the glen ; 
On the steep bank one moment stood 

The horse and rider then. 

One desperate bound the courser gave, 

And plunged into the stream ; 
And snorting, stemm'd the boiling W8% 

By the lightning's quivering gleam. 

The flood is past — the bank is gain'd— . 

Away with headlong speed ; 
A fleeter horse than Desmond rein'd 

Ne'er serv'd at lover's need. 

His scatter'd train, in eager haste, 

Ear, far behind him ride ; 
Alone he's crossed the mountain w&5ts. 

To meet his promised bride. 



IRISH BALLAD8. 

The clouds across the moon's dim foc3» 

Are fast and faster sailing, 
And sounds are heard on the sweeping storey. 

Of wild unearthly wading. 

At first low moanings seem'd to dio 

Away, and faintly languish; 
Then swell into the piercing cry 

Of deep, heart -bursting anguish. 

Beneath an oak, whose branches bare 

Were crashing in the storm, 
With wringing hands and streaming haia, 

There sat a female form. 

To pass that oak in vain he tried ; 

His steed refus'd to stir, 
Though furious 'gainst his panting side 

Was struck the bloody spur. 

The moon, by driving clouds o'ercast, 

Withheld its fitful gleam ; 
And louder than the tempest blast 

Was heard the be4I}ri5e' s scream. 

And, when the moon unveiled once more,, 

And show'd her paly light, 
Then nought was seen save the branches unr 

Of the oak-tree's blasted might. 

That shrieking iorm had vanished 
From out that lonely place ; , 

And, like a dreamy vision, fled, 
IN or left one single trace. 

Earl Desmond ga,*, a — n.s uuss^ rresS'd 

With* grief and sad forebodiag; 
Then on his fiery way he held, 

His courser madly goading. 



THE WAKE OF THE ABSENT. 

BY GERALD GRIFFIN 

[It is a custom among the peasantry in some parts of Ireland, when 
any member of a' family has been lost at sea (or in any other way 
which renders the performance of the customary funeral rite impos- 
sible), to celebrate the " wake," exactly in the same way, as if the 
corpse were actually present.] 

The dismal yew, and cypress tall, 

Wave o'er the churchward lone, 
Where rest our friends and fathers all, 

Beneath the funeral stone. 
Un vexed in holy ground they sleep, 

Oh early lost ! o'er thee 
No sorrowing friend shall ever weep, 

Nor stranger hend the knee, 

2Do Cltli)4. ! * loin am I ! 
Hoarse dashing rolls the salt sea wave. 
Over our perished darling's grave — 

The winds the sullen deep that tore, 

His death song chanted loud, 
The weeds that line the clifted shore 

Were all his burial shroud. 
For friendly wail and holy dirge, 

And long lament of love, 
Around him roared the angry surge, 

The curlew screamed above, 

2t)o Curt)4 ! lorn am 1 1 
My grief would turn to rapture now, 
Might I but touch that pallid brow. 

The stream-born bubbles soonest burst 

That earliest left the source : 
Buda earliest blown are faded first, , 

In nature's wonted course : 

• Mo Chama— My grief; or, Woe Is ma! — £*. 



IRISH BALLADS. 



THE BKLDAL WAKE. 

BY GERALD GRIFFIN. 

The priest stood at the marriage boara, 

The marriage cake was made, 
With meat the marriage chest was stored, 

Decked was the marriage bed. 
The old man sat beside the fire, 

The mother sat by him, 
The white bride was in gay attire. 

But her dark eye was dim. 

Ululah! Ululaki 
The night falls quick, the sun is set, 
Her love is on the water yet. 

I saw a red cloud in the west, 

Against the morning light, 
Heaven shield the youth that she loves be# 

From evil chance to-night. 
The door flings wide ! loud moans the gale. 

Wild fear her bosom fills, 
It is, it is the Banshee's wail ! 

Over the darkened, hills. 

Ululah ! Ululah J 
The day is past ! the night is dark 1 
The waves are mounting round his bark. 

The guests sit round the bridal bed, 

And break the bridal cake ; 
But they sit by the dead man's head, 

Acd hold his wedding wake. 
The briue is praying in her room, 

The place is silent all ! 
A fearful call ! a sudden doom ! 

Bridal and funeral. 

Ululah! Ululah i 
A youth to Kilneheras' * ta'en, 
That never •will return again. 

• The name of a churchyard near Kilkee- 



80 



2tt1 C40jtie.» 



BV CROFTON CROKER. 

Maidens, sing no more in gladness 
To your merry spinning wheels 

Join the keener's voice of sadness — 
Feel for what a mother feels ! 

See the space within my dwelling — 
'Tis the cold, blank space of death; 

"Twas the bed Title's f voice came swelHffig 
Slowly o'er the midnight heath. 

Keeners, let your song not falter — 

He was as the hawthorn fair. 
Lowly at the Virgin's altar 

Will his mother kneel in prayer. 

Prayer is good to calm the spirit, 
When the C401T)e is sweetly sung : 

Death, though mortal flesh inherit, 
Why should age lament the young ? 

'Twas the bC4T) Tide's lonely wailing ^o. 

Well I knew the voice of death. 
On the night-wind slowly sailing 

O'er the bleak and gloomy heath I 



HISTORICAL BALLADS. 



SAGA OF KING OLAF OF NORWAY, 
AND HIS DOG. 

\.b. i*ono 

BY THOMAS D'ARCY M'GEB. 



[Olaf Tryggvesson was King over all Norway from about a.d. 998 
to a.d. I0vu . His Saga, the sixth in Snorro Sturlesos's Heimskringli, 
Is very curious and suggestive. Among other incidents it contains 
the episode which suggested this Ballad. It may be remarked that 
the Chronicles of the North-men, of the several nations, throw much 
reflected light on our own more statistical annals. All through liv. 9th, 
ljth, and 11th centuries, that restless race frown along the back- 
ground of our history, filling us with the same awful interest we feel 
in watching the advance of one thundercloud towards another. They 
certaiuly destroyed many native materials for our early history, but in 
their own accounts of their expeditions into Ireland they have left u* 
much we may use.] . 



[Of the Early Reign of King Olaf, surnamed Tryggvesson.] 

King Olaf, Harald Haarfager's heir, at last had reached 

the Throne, 
Though his mother bore him in the wilds by a mountain 

lakelet lone ; 
Through many a land and danger to his right the King 

had past, 
Oprearing still thro* darkest days, as pines ajyinst the 

blast; 



Yet now, when Peace smiled on hk Throne, he cast hi* 

thoughts afar, 
And sailed from out the Baltic Sea in search of wtstcir 

war — 
His Galley was that " Sea-Serpent" renowned in Sagai 

old, 
His hanner bore two ravens grim — his green mail gleamed 

with gold — 
The King's ship and the King himself were glorious to 

behold. 



[Of the Sea-King's manner of Life.] 
King Olaf was a rover true, his throne was in his 

barque, 
The Blue-sea was his royal hath, stars gemm'd his cur- 
tains dark ; 
The red Sun woke him in the morn, and sailed he e'er 

so far, 
The Untired Courier of his way was the ancient Polar 

Star. 
It seemed as though the very winds, the clouds, the 

tides, and waves. 
Like the sea-side smiths and vikings, were his lieges and 

his slaves. 
His Premier was a Pilot old, of bronzed cheek and falcon 

eye, 
A Man, albeit who well loved life, yet nothing fear'd 

to die, 
Who little knew of Crowns or Courts, and less to crouch 

or lie. 



[How King Olaf made a descent on Antrim, and carried off the Herdi 
thereof.] 

Where Antrim's adamantine shore defies the northern 

deep, 
O'er Eed Bay's broad and buoyant breast, how shrift 

the galleys sweep. 
Hie moon is hidden in her height, the night clouds re 

may see 



IRISH BALLADS. 93 

Flitting like ocean owlets, from the cavern'd shore set 

free. 
The fall tide slumbers by the cliffs a-weary of its toil, 
The goat-herds and their flocks repose upon the upland 

soil : — 
The sea-king slowly walks the shore unto his instincts 

true, 
"While rap and down the valley'd landclimbeth his corsair 

crew, 
Noiseless as morning mist ascends, or falls the evening 

dew. 



[The King la addressed by a Clown, having a marvellous canning 
dog in his company.] 

Now looking to land, and now to sea, the King walked 
on his way, 

Until the faint face of the morn gleam'd on the dark- 
some Bay ; 

A noble herd of captured kine rank round its ebb-dried 
beach ; 

The galleys fast received them in, when lo ! with eager 
speech, 

A Clown comes headlong from the hills, begging his oxen 
three, 

And two white-footed heifers, from the Sov'ran of the 
Sea. 

His hurried prayer the King allowed as soon as it he 
heard. 

The wolf-hound of the dauntless herd, obedient to his 
word, 

Counts out and drives apart his five from the many- 
headed herd. 



[King Olaf offereth to purchase the Peasant's dog, who bestows it on 
him with a condition.] 

" By Odin, King of Men 1" marvelling, the Monarch 

spoke, 
*' I'll give thee Peasant for thy dog, ten steer* of better 

yoke 



l(Xl BOOK OF 

Than thine own five." The hearty Peasant said : 

" King of the Ships, the dog is thine ; yet if I must be 

paid, 
Vow, by your raven banner, never again to sack 
^jur vallies in the hour3 of nigM; we dread no day 

attack." 
More wondered the fierce Pagan still to hear a clown k 

say, 
\ nd mused he for a moment, as was his kingly way, 
.i that he should not carry both the man and dog 

away. 

King Olaf taketh the Vow, and saileth from the shore with the dog.] 
i lie ea-King to the clown made vow, and on his finger 

placed 
An olden ring, the sceptred hand of his great sires had 

graced, 
And Tound his neck he flung a chain of gold, pure from 

the mine, 
tVTuch, ere another moon, was laid upon St. Colomb'a 

shrine. 
x'hen with his dog he left the shore : his sails swell to 

the blast; 
i'oor " Vig" hath howled a mournful cry to the bright 

shore as they past. 
-<low brighter beamed the sunrise, and wider spread the 

fade; 
Away, away to the Scottish shore the Danish galleys 

Kef 
i nere, revelling with their kindred, six days they did 

abide. 

[The treason of the Jomshnrg Vikings calleth home the King.} 
Che seventh* news came from Norway, the Vikings had 

rebelled, 
Homeward, homeward, fast as fate, the royal sails ar« 

swelled. 
Off Halogaiand, Jarl Thorer, and Raud the Witch thej 

meet; 

• Tkt Seventh, meaning the Seventh day. 



IRISH BALLADS. 101 

But a mystic wind bears the evil ono. unharmed, far 

froi.* ...i fleet. 
Jarl Thorer to the land retreats, the fierce King ibllowg 

on, 
Slaying the Traitors' compeer, who fast and far dotb 

run. 
After him flung King Olaf, his never-missing spear ; 
But Thw*.^. ^ne was named Hiort,* and swifter than 

the deer,) 
In the distance took it up, and answered with a jeer. 

[Thorer Hiort treacherously kilieth the K1l^ -a Dog.] 

The Wolf-Dog then the Monarch loosed, the Traitor 

trembled sore, 
Vig hoia& liim on the forest's verge, the King speeds 

from the shore. 
Trembled yet more the Caitiff, to think what he should 

tio, 
He drew his glaive, and with a blow, pierced his captor 

through ; 
A.nd wneii the King came to the place, his noble dog lay 

dead, 
His red mouth foamy white, and his white breast crimson 

red. 
" Gvd's curse upon you, Thorer" — 'twas from the heart, 

I ween, 
Of the grieved King this ban burst out beside the forest 

green. 
The Traitor vanished into the woods, and never 

again was seen. 



Two cairns rise by Drontheim-fiord, with two grey 

stones hard by, 
Sculptured with Runic characters, plain to the lor®- 

read eye, 

• Literally, a Dew. 



102 BOOK o» 

And there the King and here his Dog from all their toili 

repose, 
And over their cairns the salt sea wind night and day it 

blows ; 
And close to these they point you the ribs of a galley's 

wreck, 
With a forked tongue in the curling crest, and half of a 

scaly neck, 
And some late sailing scalds have told that along the 

shore side grey 
They have often heard a kindly voice and a huge hound's 

echoing bay, 
And some have seen the Traitor to the pine woods run- 
ning away. 



Cjonr) Ch,oritl41T>h.* 



LAXEKTATIOX OV KAC LUG FOE KINCORA. — A.D. 1015. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH. 

BT JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 

[This poem Is ascribed to the celebrated poet Mac Liag, the secretary 
of the renowned monarch Brian Horu, who, as is well known, fell at 
the battle of Clontarf in 1014, and the subject of it is a lamentation for 
the fallen condition of Kincora, the palace of that monarch, consequent 
on his death. 

The decease of Mac Lug is recorded, ia the " Annals of the Four 
Masters," as having taken place in 1015. A great number of his poenn 
are still in existence, but none of them have obtained a popularity sc 
widely extended as his " Lament" 

Of the palace of Kincosa, which was situated on the banks of th3 
Shannon, near Killaloe, there are at present no vestiges.] 

Oh, where, Kincora 1 is Brian the Great ? 

And where is the beauty that once was thine ? 
Oh, r here are the princes and nobles that sate 

At the feast in thy halls, and drank ii.»: led wins 
"Where, oh, Kincora? 



IRISH BALLADS. 103 

Oh, where, Kincora ! are thy valorous lords ? 

Oh, whither, thou Hospitable ! are they gone ( 
Oh, where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords ?* 

And where are the warriors Brian led on ? 

Where, oh, Kincora? 

And where is Morogh, the descend-mt of kings ; 

The defeater of a hundred — the daringly brave — 
Who set but slight store by jewels and rings ; 

Who swam down the torrent and laughed at its ware ! 
Where, oh, Kincora? 

And where is Donogh, King Brian's son ? 

And where is Conaing, the beautiful chief? 
And Kian and Core ? Alas ! they are gone ; 

They have left me this night alone with my grief 1 
Left me, Kincora 1 

And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth, 
The never-vanquished sons of Evin the brave, 

The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth, 
And the hosts of Baskinn from the western wave? 
Where, oil, Kincora? 

Oh, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds ? 

And where is Kian, who was son of Molloy ? 
And where is King Lonergan, the fame of wiiose deeds 

In the red battle-field no time can destroy ? 

Where, oh, Kincora? 



And where is that youth of majestic height, 
^he fa.th-keeping Prince of the Scots ? Even he, 

As wide as his fame was, *.z n,io&Z as was his might, 
Was tributary, oh Kincora, to thee ! 

Thee, oh, Kincora 1 

* C0I5 T)-Ot) (Colgn-or) or the Sworda of 60&, i.e. of t 

getd-ki'Jtd Swords. 



104 



They are gone, those heroes of royal birth, 

Who plundered no churches, and broke do trust? 

'Tis weary for me to be living on earth 

When they, oh Kincora, lie low in the dust 1 
Low, oh, Kincora ! 

Oh, never again will Princes appear, 

To rival the Dalcassians of the Cleaving Sworda: 
I can never dream of meeting afar or anear, 

In the east or the west, such heroes and lords ! 
Never, Kincora ! 

Oh, dear are the images my memory calls up 
Of Brian Boru ! — how he never would miss 

To give me at the banquet the first bright cup ! 
All I why did he heap on me honour like this ? 
Why, oh, Kincora? 

I am Mac Liag, and my home is on the Lake : 

Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is lied, 

Came Brian, to ask me, and I went for his sake, 

Oh, my grief! that I should live, and Brian be dead J 
Dead, oh, Kincora ! 



THE DEATH OE KING MAGNUS BAREFOOT. 
a.d. 1102. 

BY THOMAS D'ARCY M'CEE. 



[Bang Magnus Barefoot became joint king of Norway with Ha&on 
Olatson, in 1093. But Hakon, in chasing a ptarmigan over the I>ovre- 
fleld, caught an ague, of which he died. After this, Magnus reigned 
alone for ten years. In this time he made muny voyages into the west, 
conquering all lie attacked, whether in the Is'es or on the Scottish oi 
English shores. In 1 102 he was slain in Uste.' \>y an Irish force, nee* 
&o sea shore. In Miss Brooke's " Reliques of hUh Poetry" is a trans- 



IRISH BALLADS. 139 

latlon of an Irish peen on this event, " the author of which " that lady- 
observes, " is said to have belonged to the family of the O'Neills." 
This poem agrees with Sturieson as to the date of the fight, and its re- 
sult, hut differs in the details. I have followed the latter for the facts 
of .Magnus's previous life, as well as for the immediate cause of his 
death. It is scarcely necessary to add that at this period the Iianes 
were Christians, in doctrine, if not in practice.] 



"On the eve of St. Bartholomew off Ulii v '8 shore w^ 
lay," 
(Thus the importuned Scald began his tale of woe,) 
"And faintly round our fleet fell the August evening 
gray, 
And sadly the sunset winds did blow. 

"I stood beside our Monarch then — deep care was oa 
his brow — 
' I hear no horn,' he signed, ' from the shore : 
Why tarry still my errand-men ? — 'tis time they were 
here nov 
And that to some less guarded coast we bore.' 

" Into the vernal west our errand-men had gona — 

To Muirkeartach, the ally of the King, 
(Whose daughter late was wed to Earl Sigurd, his soa, ; 

The dower of the bridegroom to bring. 

«' *Twas midnight in the firmament, ten thousand stars 
were there, 

And from the darksome sea looked up other ten, 
I lay beside our Monarch, he was sleepless, and the care 

On his brow had grown gloomier then. 

"As the sun awaking bright its beaming lustre shed, 
From his couch rose the King slowly up, 

' Elldiarn, what ! — thou awake ! I must landward go, 
he said, 
* And with you or the saints I shall sup.' 

; The Ahile the sun arose, in his galley thro' the flesS 
Our noble Magnus went, and the earls all awoke, 



106 bo"*«. ot 

Aad each prepared for land — tfie late errw.5 tatn to 

meet, 
Or to free them from the Irish yoke. 

" It was a noble army ascending the green hills, 

As ever kingly master led — 
The memory of their marching my mournful bosom 
thrills, 

And my ears catch the echoes of their tread. 

" Two hours had passed away, and I wander'd on the 
strand, 

Loud cries from afar smote my ear ; 
I climb'd the seaward mountain and look'djrpon the land, 

Where, in sooth, I saw a sight of fear. " 

" As winter-rocks all jagged with the leafless arms of 
pines, 
Stood the Irish host of spears on their path — 
As the winter streams down dash thro' the terrible ra- 
vines, 
So our men sought the shore white with wrath. 

" The arrow flights, at intervals, were thicker o'er th« 
field 
Than the sea-birds o'er Jura's rocks, 
While the banners in the darkness were lost — shield 01? 
shield 
Within it clashed in thunderous shocks. 

" At last one hoarse farra h broke thro' the battle- oloud, 

Like the roar of a billow in a cave ; 
And the darkness was uplifted like a plague city'* 
shroud, 

And there lifeless lay our Monarch brave. 

" And dead beside the king lay Earl Erling's sou, 

And Erving and Ulf, the free; 
And loud the Irish cried to see what they had fcxm. 

But they could cry as loud as we. 



IRISH BALLADt). 



107 



*■ Oh! Norway, Norway, wilt thou ever more behold 

A. Ehig, like thy last, in worth ? 
Whose heart feared not the world — whose hands were 
full of gold, 

For the numberless Scalds of the North. 

« 4 Ah 1 well do I remember how he swept the western 
seas 

Like the wind in its wintry mood — 
How he reared young Sigurd's throne upon the Orcades, 

And the Isles of the South subdued — 

" In his galley o'er Cantire, how we bore him from tha 
main — 

How Mona in a week he won ; 
By him, how Chester's Earl in Anglesea was slain— 

Oh I Norway, that his course is run !" 



THE BATTLE OF Ctjoc-'Cim'o.* 

A.D. 11S9. 
MZ THE AUTHOR OP "THE MONKS OF KXLCB.TEA." 

[About this time (1189) the Anglo-Norman power in Ireland received 
a severe check by the death of Sir Armoricus Tristram, brother-in-law, 
and. after tho chivalrous fashion of the day, sworn comrade of Sir 
John De Courcey Having gone with a strong force to Connaught on 
An expedition, he was attacked with a far superior army by Catlial 
O'Connor, t sumained "The Red Handed," and slain, with all his 
followers.] 

Close hemm'd by foes, in Ulster hills, within his castle 

pent, 
For aid unto the west countrie Sir John De Courcey 

sent; 

* Knooktuadh, " The Hill of Axes," lies within a few SBilei of 
Galway. 
t For an exquisite ballad on " Cathal O'Connor" see p. 114. 



i€8 BOOK OF 

And, for the sake of knightly vow, and friendship old 

and tried, 
He prayed that Sii Armor Tristram would to his rescue 

ride. 

Then grieved full sore that noble knight, when he those 

tidings heard, 
And deep a vow *ie made, with full many a holr 

word — 
That, aid him Heaven and good St. Lawrence, full 

vengence should await 
The knaves who did De Courcey wrong, and brought 

him to this strait. 

And a goodly sight it was, o'er Clare-Galway's glassy 

plain, 
..To see the bold Sir Tristram pass, with all his gallant 

train : 
For thirty knights came with him there, all kinsmen 

of his blood, 
And seven score spears and ten, right valiant mea 

and good. 

And clasping close, with sturdy arms, each horseman 

by the waist, 
Behind each firm-fixed saddle there, a footman light was 

placed ; 
And fast they spurred in sweeping trot, as if in utmost 

need, 
Their harness ringing loudly round, and foam upon 

each steed. 

They cross the stream — they reach the wood — the bend- 
ing boughs give way, 

And fling upon their waving plumes light showers of 
sparkling spray ; 

But when they pass that leafy copse, and topp'J the 
hillock's crest, 

Then jumped each footman down — eacn Uorseman kid 
his lance in rest. 



IRISH BALLADS. 109 

For far and wide as eye could reach, a mighty host was 
seen 

Of Irish kernes and gallowglass, with hobbelers be- 
tween, 

And proudly waving in the front fierce Cathal's standard 
flies, 

With many more of Cannaught's chiefs, and Desmond's 
tribes likewise. 

Then to a knight Sir Tristram spake, with fearless eye 

and brow, 
"Sir Hugolin, advance my flag, and do this errand 

~Ow: , 

Go. seek the leader of yon host, and greet him fair 

nvkin me. 
And ask, why thus, with armed men, he blocks my 

passage free ?" 

Then stout Sir Hugolin prick'd forth, upon his gallant 

gray, 
The banner in his good right hand, and thus aloud did 

say : — 
"Ho! Irish chiefs! Sir Armor Tristram greets ye fair, 

by me, 
And bids me ask, why thus in arms ye block his pas. 

sage free ?" 

Then stept fierce Cathal to the front, his chieftains 

standing nigh: 
" Proud stranger, take our answer back, and this our 

reason why : — 
Our wolves are gaunt for lack of food— our eagles 

pine away, 
And to glut them with your flesh, lo! we stop you 

here this day I" 

•* No>v, gramercy for the thought 1" calm Sir Hugolin 

replied, 
And with a steadfast look and mien that wrathful chief 

h® eyed :— 



\10 BOOK. OF 

•* Yet, shotild your wild birds covet not the dainty 

fare you name, 
Then, by the rood, our Norman swords shall carve them 

better game !" 

Then turned his horse, and back he rode unto the 
little band 

That, halted on the hill, in firm and martial order stand ; 

When told his tale, then divers knights began to coun- 
sel take, 

Haw best they could their peril shun, and safe deli- 
verance make. 

" Against such odds, all human might is valueless I" 

they cried ; 
"And better 'twere at once 10 turn, and thro' the 

thicket ride." 
When, high o'er all, Sir Tristram spake, in accents bold 

and free : — 
"Let all depart who fear to fight this battle out with 



" For never yet shall mortal say, I left him in his need, 
Or brought him into danger's grasp — then trusted to 

my steed I 
And, come what will, whate'er betide, let all depart who 

may, 
I'll share my comrades' lot, and with them stand or fall 

this day!" 

Then drooped with burning shame full many a knightly 

crest, 
And nobler feelings answering swell'd throughout each 

throbbing breast ; 
And stout Sir Hugolin spoke first: — "Whate'er our 

lot may be, 
Come weal, come woe, 'fore Heaven, we'll stand or fall 

this day with thee !" 

Then from his horse Sir Tristram lit, and drew hia 
shining blad'* 



IRISH BALLADS. 1] 1 

And gazing on the noble beast, right mournfully he 

said : — 
"Thro' many a bloody field thou hast borne me safe 

and well, 
And never knight had truer friend than thou, fleet 

Roancelle 1 

"When wounded sore, and left for dead, on far Knock- 

gara's plain, 
No friendly aid or vassal near — yet, thou did'st still 

remain 1 
Close to thy master there thou madest thy rough and 

fearful bed, 
And on thy side, that night, my steed, I laid my aching 

head ! 

" Yet now, my gallant horse, we part 1 thy proud career 

is o'er, 
And never shalt thou bound beneath an armed rider 

more." 
He spoke, and kist the blade — then pierced his charger's 

glossy side, 
And madly plunging in the air, the noble courser 

diedl 

Then every horseman in his band, dismounting, did 

the same, 
And in that company no steed alive was left, but twain; 
On one there rode De Courcey's squire, who came from 

Ulster wild ; 
Upon the other young Oswald sate, Sir Tristram's only 

child. 

The father kist his son, then spake, while tears his eye- 
lids fill: 

" Good Hamo, take my boy, and spur with him to yon- 
der hill ; 

Go, watch from thence, till all is o'er; then, north- 
ward haste in flight, 

And say, that Tristram in his harness died, like a worthy 
knight." 



112 BOOK OF 

Now pealed along the foeman's ranks a shrill and wiid 

halloo! 
While boldly back defiance loud the Norman bugles 

blew; 
And bounding up the hill, like hounds, at hunted 

quarry set, 
The Irish kernes came fiercely on, and fiercely were 

they met. 

Then rose the roar of battle loud — the shout — the cheer 

■ — the cry ! 
The clank of ringing steel, the gasping groans of those 

who die ; 
Yet onward still the Norman band, right fearless cut 

their way, 
As move the mowers o'er the sward upon a summer's 

day. 

For round them there, like shorn grass, the foe in hun- 
dreds bleed ; 

Yet, fast as e'er they fall, each side, do hundreds more 
succeed 

"With naked breasts, undaunted meet the spears of steel- 
clad men, 

And sturdily, wiih axe and skein, repay their blow* 
again. 

Now, crushed with odds, their phalanx broke, each Nor- 
man fights alone, 

And few are left throughout the field, and they are fee- 
ble grown ; 

But, high o'er all, Sir Tristram's voice is like a trumpet 
heard, 

And still, where'er he strikes, the foemen sink beneath 
his sword. 

But once he raised his beaver up — alas ! it was to t-y 
If Hamo and his boy yet tarried on the mountain 
nigh; 



IBISH BALLADS. US 

^VTien sharp an arrow from the foe, pierc'd right thro' 

his brain, 
And sank the gallant knight a corpse upon the bloody 

plain. 

Then failed the fight, for gathering round his lifeless 
body there, 

The remnant of his gallant band fought fiercely in de- 
spair ; 

And one by one they wounded fell — yet with their latest 
breath, 

Their Norman war-cry shouted bold — then sank in silent 
death. 

And thus Sir Tristram died ; than whom no mortal 

knight could be 
More brave in list or battle-field, — in banquet-hall more 

free ; 
The flower of noble courtesy — of Norman peers the 

pride ; 
Oh, not in Christendom's wide realms can be his loss 

supplied. 

Sad tidings these to tell, in far Downpatrick's lofty 

towers, 
And sadder news to bear to lone Ivora's silent bowers ; 
Yet shout ye not, ye Irish kernes — good cause have ye 

to rue ; 
Hoe a bioody fight and stern was the battl; jf ClJCC 



114 



a vision or Cowct* in the thirteenth 

CENTURY. 

BY JAMES CLARENCE SIANGAN, 

"Kt moi, j'ai ete aussi en Arcadie." — And I, I, too, have \nen» 
dreamer Inscription on a Painting by Poussin. 

I walked entranced 
Through a land of morn ; 
The sun, with wondrous excess of light, 
Shone down and glanced 
Over seas of corn, 
And lustrous gardens aleft and right. 
Even in the clime 
Of resplendent Spain 
Beams no such sun upon such a land : 
But it was the time, 
'Twas in the reign, 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand.f 

Anon stood nigh 
By my side a man 
Of princely aspect and port sublime. 
Him queried I, 

" O, my Lord and Khan, % 
What clime is this, and what golden time ?* 
When he — "The clime 
Is a clime to praise, 
The clime is Erin's, the green and bland j 
And it is the time, 
These be the days, 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wkie-red Hand ! M 

* Connaught. 

t The Irish and Oriental poets both agree in atrriiraijng favourable 
or unfavourable weather and abundant or deficient harvests to the good 
or bad qualities of the reigning monarch. What the character ol 
Cahal was will be seen below. 

% Identical with the Irish Ceann, Head, or Chief; but I the rathe* 
gave him the Oriental title, as really fancying myself in one of the re- 
gions of Araby the Blest 



IRISH BALLADS. U5 

Then I saw thrones, 
And circling fires, 
And a dome rose near me, as by a ep*& 
Whence flowed the tones 
Of silver lyres 
And many voices in wreathed swell ; 
And their thrilling chime 
Fell on mine ears 
As the heavenly hymn of an angel-bsc^ — 
" It is now the time, 
These be the years, 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Handl" 



I sought the hall, 

And, behold ! — a change 
From light to darkness, from joy to woe • 
Kings, nobles, all, 

Looked aghast and strange ; 
The minstrel-group sate in dumbest shovi 
Had some great crime 

Wrought this dread amaze, 
This terror ? None seemed to understand J 
'Twas then the time, 
We were in the days, 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 

I again walked forth ; 
But lo ! the sky 
Showed fleckt with blood, and an alien sun 
Glared from the north, 
And there stood on high, 
Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton!* 



* " It was but natural that these portentous appearances should thus 
fea exhibited on this occasion, for they were the heralds ef a ',? -y great 
calamity that befe the Connaciuns in this year — namely, the death oi 
Cathal ol the Red Hand, son of Torlogh .Mor of the Wine, and king ol 
Caanauglit a prince of most amiable qualities, and into whooe heart 
Q«D had infused more piety and goodness than into the lieai-ts of any 
e£ his cotemporaries."— Annals of the Four Maettra, A I). 1224. 



116 



It was by the stream 

Of the castled Maine, 

one autumn eve, in the Teuton's lan-,2, 

That I dreamed this dream 

Of the time ana reign 

Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand ! 



BATTLE OF CEEDEAN. 

A.D. 1257. 
BY EDWARD WALSH. 

[A brilliant battle was fought by Geoffrey O'Donnell, Lord of Tircon- 
nofi, against the Lord Justice of Ireland, Maurice Fitzgerald, and tha 
English of Connaught, at Credran Cille, Eoseede, in the territory cf 
Carburry, north of Sligo, in defence of his principality. A fierce and 
terrible conflict took place, in which bodies were hacked, heroes dis- 
ab'ed, and the strength of both sides exhausted. The men of Tircon- 
nell maintained their ground, and completely overthrew the English 
forces in the engagement, and defeated them with great slaughter; but 
Geoffrey himself was severely wounded, having encounrered in the fight 
Maurice Fitzgerald, in single combat, in which they mortally wounded 
each other. — Annals of the Four Masters, translated by Owen Connellan, 
Esq.] 

From the glens of his fathers O'Donnell comes forth, 
With all Cinel-Conaill,* fierce septs of the North — 
O'Boyle and O'Daly, O'Dugan, and they 
That own, by the wild waves, O'Doherty's sway. 

Clan Connor, brave sons of the diadem'd Niall, 

Has pour'd the tall clansmen from mountain and vale — 

M 'Sweeny's sharp axes, to battle oft bore, 

Flash bright in the sun-light by high Dunamore. 

* Cinel-Conaill— The. descendants of Conall-Gulban, the son of Niol 
of the Nine Hostages, Monarch of Ireland in the fourth century. The 
principality was named Tir-Chonaile, or Tyrconnell, which 
tha coanty Donegal, and its chieSa were the O'Donnelis. 



IBISH BALLADS. 117 

Through Inis-Mac-Durin,* through Derry's danc 

brakes, 
Glentocher of tempests, Sleibh-sneacht of the lakes, 
Bundoran of dark spells, Loch-Suileach's rich glen, 
The red deer rush wild at the war-shout of men ! 

O! why through Tir-Chonaill, from Cuil-dubh's dark 

steep. 
To Samer's f green border the fierce masses sweep, 
Living torrents o'er-leaping their own river shore, 
In the red sea of battle to mingle their roar ? 

Stretch thy vision far southward, and seek for reply 
Where blaze of the hamlets glares red on the sky — 
Where the shrieks of the hopeless rise high to theii 

God, 
Where the foot of the Sassanach spoiler has trod ! 

Sweeping on like a tempest, the Gall-Oglach J stern 
Contends for the van with the swift-footed kern — 
There's blood lor that burning, and joy for that wail — 
The avenger is hot on the spoiler's red trail ! 

The Saxon hath gather'd on Credran's far heights, 
His groves of long lances, the flower of his knights— . 
His awful cross-bowmen, whose long iron hail 
Finds, through Cota§ and Sciath, the bare heart of tha 
Gael! 

The long lance is brittle — the mailed ranks reel 
Where the Gall-Oglach's axe hews the harness.of steel; 
A.nd truer to its aim in the breast of a foeman, 
te the pike of a kern than the shaft of a bowman. 

* Districts in Donegal. 

1 Samer — The ancient name of Loch Earne. 

X Gall-Oglach, or Gallowglass — The heavy -armed foot soldier. Kern, 
or Ceilheriuu-h— The light-armed soldier. 

§ Cota — The saffron-dyed shirt of the kern, consisting of many yard* 
of yellow linen thickly plaited. Sciath— The wicker shield, as its nama 
imports. 



118 BOOK OF 

One prayer to St. Columb* — the battle-steel clashes— 
The tide of fierce conflict tumultuously dashes ; 
Surging onward, high-heaving its billow of blood, 
While war-shout and death-groan swell high o'er the 
flood 1 

As meets the wild billows the deep-centr'd rock, 
Met glorious Clan Chonaill the fierce Saxon's shock ; 
As the wrath of the clouds flash 'd the axe of Clan- 

Chonaill, 
Till the Saxon lay strewn 'neath the might of O'Don- 

nell ! 

One warrior alone holds the wide bloody field, 
With barbed black charger and long lance and shield- 
Grim, savage, and gory he meets their advance, 
His broad shield up-lifting and crouching his lance- 
Then forth to the van of that fierce rushing throng 
Rode a chieftain of tall spear and battle-axe strongs 
His bracca.f and geochal, and cochal's red fold, 
And war-horse's housings, were radiant in gold ! 

Say who is this chief spurring forth to the fray, 
The wave of whose spear holds yon armed array ? 
And he who stands scorning the thousands that sweep, 
An army of wolves over shepherd less sheep ? 

* St. Colum, or Colum-Cille, the dove <f the Church- The patron saint 
of Tyrconnoil, descended from Conall (iulban. 

t Ilracca — So called, from being striped with various colours, was 
the tight-fitting Iruis. It covered the ancles, legs, and thighs, rising 
as high as the loins, and fitted so tight to the limbs as to discover every 
muscle and motion of the parts which it covered. — Walker on Dress 
of the Irish. 

Geochal— The jacket made of gilded leather, and which was some- 
tin es embroidered with silk — Ibid. 

Cochal—k sort of cloak with a large hanging collar of different 
colours. This garment reached to the middle of the thigh, and was 
fringed with a border like shagged hair, and being brought over the 
shoulders was fastened on the breast by a clasp, buckle, or brooche of 
silver or gold. In battle, they wrapped the Cochal several times round 
the left -Jin as a shield.— Ibid. 



IRISH BALLADS. 119 

The shield of his nation, brave Geoffrey O'Donnell 
(Clar-Fodhla's firm prop is the proud race of ConaillL* 
And JYiaurice Fitzgerald, the scorner of danger, 
The scourge of the Gael, and the strength of the stranger. 

The launch 'd spear hath torn through target and mail — 
The couch'd lance hath borne to his crupper the Gael — 
The steeds driven backwards all helplessly reel ; 
But the lance that lies broken hath blood on its steel ! 

And now fierce O'Donnell, thy battle-axe wield — 
The broad-sword is shiver'd, and cloven the shield, 
The keen steel sweeps grinding through proud crest and 

crown — 
Clar-Fodlah hath triumph'd — the Saxon is down I 



THE BATTLE OF ARDNOCHER. 

a.d. 1328. 

by the author of " the monks of kilcrea." 

[A.D. 1328, MacGeoghegan gave a great overthrow to the English, 
hi which three thousand five hundred of them, together with the 
D'Altons, were slain. — Annals of the Four Masters. 

This battle, in which the English forces met such tremendous de- 
feat, was fought near Mullingar, on the day before the feast if t. 
Laurence — namely, the 9th August. The Irish clans were i ommanded 
by William MacUeoghegan, Lord of Kenil Feacha, in Westmeath, 
comprising the present baronies of .Voyeashel and Rathconrath. The 
J-iglish forces were commanded by Lord Thomas Butler, he Petits, 
Tuites, N angles. Delemers, &c. The battle took place a: the Hil oi 
Ardnocher Ibid, p. 116 ] 

On the eve of St. Laurence, at the cross of Glenfad. 
Both of chieftains and bonaghts what a muster we had, 



• This is the translation of the first line of a poem of two hundred 
and forty-eight verses, written by Firgalog Mac-an-Bhairdon Doniaiek 
OTiocneTJ, in the year lfi.55. The original line is — 
" Gaibhle Fodhla fuil ChonaiU." 
— Sas O'ReiUy's Account of Irith Writers. 



tSO BOOK '»? 

Thick as bees, round the heather, on the side of Slie^e 
To the trysting the - *' gnrner by the light of the moon. 

For The Butler from Ormond with a hosting he came, 
And harried Mayeashel with havoc and flame, 
Not ? hoof or a hayrick, nor corn blade to feed on. 
Had he left in the wide land, right up to Dunbreedon. 

Then gathered MacGeoghegan, the high prince of Do- 

nore, 
With O'Connor from Croghan, and O'Dempsys 3° 

ledfl ; * 
And, my soul, how we shouted, as dash'd in with then; 

men, 
Bold MacCoghlan from Clara, O'Mulloy from the glen 

And not long did we loiter where the four ■COCdflf f met, 

But his saddle each tightened, and his spurs closer set, 
By the skylight tha^ flashes all their red burnings back. 
And by black gore aLu ashes fast the reivers we track. 

'Till we came to Ardnocher, and its steep slope we gain, 
And stretch'd there, beneath us, saw their host in the 

plain ; 
And high shouted our leader ('twas the brave William 

Roe)— 
" By the red hand of Nial, 'tis the Sassanach foe 1" 

" Now, low level your spears, grasp each battle-axe firm, 
And for God and our Ladye strike ye downright and 

stern ; 
For our homes and our altars charge ye steadfast and 

true, 
And our watchword be vcngeanco, and t4li) 'DftAJlJ 

2lbu!t" 

• G<Uore (fn abundance). t Toghers (roads). 

t Lfeiua Dcarg Aboo (the red hand for ever). 



IRISH BALLADS. 121 

Oh, then down like a torrent with a farrah we swept, 
And full stout was the Saxon who his saddle-tree kept } 
For we dash'd thro' their horsemen till they reel'd from 

the stroke, 
And their spears, like dry twigs, with our axes we broke. 

With our plunder we found them, our fleet garrons and 

kine, 
And each chalice and cruet they had snatch' d from God's 

shrine. 
But a red debt we paid them, the Sassanach raiders, 
As we scatterld their spearmen, slew chieftains and 

leaders. 

In the Pale there is weeping and watchings in vain. 
De Lacy and D' Alton, can ye reckon your slain ? ' 
Where's your chieftain, fierce Nangle? Has DeNetter- 

ville fled ? 
Ask the Holingar eagles, whom their carcasses fed. 

Ho ! ye riders from Ormond, will ye brag in your hall, 
How your lord was struck down with Ms inail'd knighi* 

and all? 
Sirim at midnight the Shannon, beard the wolf in Ms 

sl&i, 
Ere jou ride to Moycashel on a foray again ! 



133 BOOK My 

3jtA3JJl)e SDaoI* AND ELIZABETH. 

A. D. 1575. 
BY THE AUTHOR OF "THE MONKS OF KILCREA."f 

[The following account of TSVAWW 2t)40l is taken fromOweu 
Connelsn's Translation of the " Annals of the Four Masters," note. r>. 
547; it Is compiled from Articles in the Aiithologia ffibemica, Lodee'e 
Peerage of Ireland, and other authorities. 

Grace O'Malley, called in Trish 5fl41T)T)e ^^Uol, commonly 
prone unced Granu Wail, is celebrated in Irish History. She was first 
married to 0' Flaherty, Chief of West Connaught; and, senc/"/ F \y, to Sir 
Kichard Burke, by whom she had a son Theobald, who was a com- 
mander of note on the side of the English, in Connaught, in the reign 
of Elizabeth ; he was called Sir Theobald Burke, and was created vis- 
count of Mayo by Charles 1. Her father, Owen O'Maltoy, was a Jinted 
chief, and had a small fleet with which he made many expeditions, 
partly for commercial purposes, but chiefly in piracy. Grace, in her 
youth, frequently accompanied her father on these expeditions, and 
after his death, her brother being a minor, she took upon herself the 
command of her galleys, and made with her crews many bold expe- 
ditions; her chief rendezvous was at Clare Island, off the coast of 
Mayo, where she kept her large vessels moored, and had a fortress; but 
she had her small craft at Carrigahooly % Castle (in the bay of Newport, 
county Mayo ), which was her chief residence and stronghold ; and there 
Was a hole to be seen in the ruined walls through which a cable was 
run from one of her ships, for the purpose of communicur'.ng an alarm 
to her apartment on uiiy sudden danger. It is said that lftr piracies 
became so frequent that she was proclaimed, and £500 offered as a 
reward for her apprehension, and troops were sent from Galway to 
take the Castle of Carrigahooly, but after a siege of more than a fort- 
night, they were forced to retire, being defeated by the valour of Grace 
and her men. These exploits were performed by her before and after 
her marriage with O'Flahei ty, but after his death, and her marriage 
with Sir h'ichard 1'urke, she became reconciled to the government, 
and, with her followers, assisted the English forces in Connaught, and 
for her services it is said that Queen Elizabeth wrote her a letter of 
invitation to the court, in consequence of which Grace, with some ot 
her galleys, set sail for London, about the year 1575, and she was re- 

» Grataie Maol— pronounced Granu Wail 
* See " Ballad Poetry of Ireland," p. 227. 

JC4Jl|14JCC-A-Ulle. (Carri<5k-*-trae— tha Eoci In AM 
Elbow.) 



IRISH BALLAD8. Via 

teived at court with great honours hy the Queen, who offered to create 
her a Countess, which honour Grace declined, answering that both of 
thew being Princesses, they were equal in rank, and they could there- 
fore confer no honours on each other: but Grace said that her Ma- 
jesty might confer any title she pleased on her young son, a child which 
WfW born on ship-board during her voyage to England; and it is said 
that tl.e Queen knighted the child, who was called by the Irish Tioboid- 
na-Lung,* signifying Theobald of the Ships, from the circuiruitance of hie 
being born on ship-board, and this Sir Theobald Burke was created 
Viscount of Mayo by Charles I. 

The well-known circumstance of her carrying off the young heir of 
St. Laurence from Howth, as a punishment for his father's want 
of hospitality in having the Castle gates closed during dinner time, oc- 
curred on her return from England. 

Grace endowed a monastery on Clare Island, off the coast of Mayo, 
where she was buried, and it is said some remains of her monument 
are still to be seen there. 

Grace O'Malley has been long famous as an Irish heroine in the tra- 
ditions of the people, and her naro.3 is still remembered in song ; in 
various poetical tompositions, both in English and Irish, her name is 
celebrated ; and in these songs Ireland is generally personified under 
the designation of Granu Wail. One of these, which was very popular, 
was composed by the celebrated Jacobite Munster Bard, Shane ClaracJj 
Mac Donnell.] 

There stands a tower by the Atlantic side — 

A gray old tower, by storms and sea-waves beat— 

Perch'd on a cliff beneath it, yawneth wide 
A lofty cavern — of yore, a fit retreat 
For pirates' galleys ; altho' now, you'll meet 

Nought but the seal and wild gull ; from that crv~f 
A hundred steps doth upwards lead your feet 

Unto a lonely chamber ! — bold and brave 

Is he who climbs that stair, all slippery from the wav* 

I sat there on an evening. In the west, 

Amid the waters, sank the setting sun ; 
While clouds, like parting friends, about him prest. 

Clad in their fleecy garbs, of gold and dun ; 

And silence was around me — save the hum 
)f the lone wild bee, or the curlew's cry. 

And lo ! upon me did a vision come, 
Hf her v!t? built that tower, in days gone > -» 
And, hi ihat dream, behold ! I saw a building 



*^)ObQJX>-*J4-ltt1|5- 



194 BOOK OF 

A stately hall — lofty and carved the roof- 
Was deck'd with silken banners fair to see„ 

The hangings velvet, from Genoa's woof, 
And wrought with Tudor roses curiously ; 
At its far end did stand a canopy, 

Shading a chair of state, on which was seen 
A ladye fair, whose look of majesty, 

Amid a throng, 'yclad in costly sheen — 

Nobles and gallant knights proclaimed her England'* 
Queen 1 

The sage Elizabeth ! and by her side 

Were group 'd her counsellors, with calm grave air, 
Burleigh and Walsingham, with others, tried 

In wisdom and in war, and sparkling there, 

Like Summer butterflies, were damsels fair, 
Beautiful and young : behind a trusty band 

Of stalwart yeomanry, with watchful care, 
The portal guard, while nigher to it stand 
Usher and page, ready to ope with willing hand. 

A Tucket sounds, and lo ! there enters now 
A stranger group, in saffron tunics drest: 

A female at their head, whose step and brow 
Herald her rank, and calm and self possest 
Onward she comes, alone, through England's best. 

With careless look and bearing free, yet high. 
Tho' gentle dames their titterings scarce represt, 

Noting her garments as she past them by ; 

None laughed again, who met that stern and flashing 
eye. 

Bestless and dark, its sharp and rapid look 
Shew'd a fierce spirit, prone a wrong to feel, 

And quicker to revenge it. As a Book, 

That sun-burnt brow did fearless thoughts reveal : 
And in her girdle was a skeyne of steel ; 

Her crimson mantle, a gold brooch did bind ; 
Her flowing garments reached unto her heel ; 



IRISH BALLADS. 125 

Her hair — part fell in tresses unconfined, 

And part, a silver bodkin did fasten up behind." 

"Fwas tot her grarb that caught the gazers' eye — 

Tho' strange, 'twas rich, and after its fashion, good~~ 

But the wild grandeur of her mien — erect and high. 
Before the English Queen she dauntless stood, 
And none her bearing there could scorn as rude ; 

She seemed well used to power — as one that hath 
Dominion over man of savage mood, 

And dared the tempest in its midnight wrath, 

And tliro' opposing billows cleft her fearless path. 

And courteous greeting Elizabeth th.en pay., 
And bids her welcome to her English land 

And humble hall. Each look with curious gaze 
Upon the other's face, and felt they stand 
Before a spirit like their own. Her hand 

The stranger raised — and pointing where all pale, 
Thro' the high casement, came the sunlight bland, 

Gilding the scene and group with rich avail; 

Thus, to the English Sov'reign, spoke proud 5T 1< 1J1}1)8 
2D401: 

" Queen of the Saxons ! from the distant west 

I come; from A dull steep and Island Clare -, 
Where the wild eagle builds, 'mid clouds, his nest, 

And ocean flings its billows in the air. 

I come to greet you in your dwelling fair. 
Led by your fame — lone sitting in my cave, 

In sea-beat Doona — it hath reached me there, 
Theme of the minstrel's song ; and then I gave 
My galley to the wind, and crossed the dark green 
wave. 



* A yellow bodice ind petticoat. Her hair gathered to the crown 
and fastened with a bodkin, with a crimson mantle thrown over hei 
shoulders, constituted the court dress of the Irish heroine. — WrtgW 
Scenes in Ireland. 



198 BOOK OF 

" Health to thee, ladye ! — let your answer be, 
Health to our Irish land ; for evil men 

Do vex her sorely, and have bucklar'd thee 
Abettor of their deeds ; a lying train, 
That cheat their mistress for the love of gcin, 

And wrong their trust — aught else I little reck, 
Alike to me, the mountain and the glen — 

The castle's rampart or the galley's deck ; 

But thou my country spare — your foot is on her nsd 

Thus brief and bold, outspake that ladye stern, 

And all stood silent thro' that crowded hall ; 
While proudly glared each wild and savage kern 

Attendant on their mistress. Then courtly all 

Elizabeth replies, and soothing fall 
Her words, and pleasing to the Irish ear — 

Pair promises— that she would soon recal 
Her evil servants. Were these words sincere ? — 
That promise kept ? Let Erin answer with a tear. 

And such my dream, by distant Erris' side, 

Where Clare's tall cliffs opposed the dashing sea. 

Lone Isle of storms ! tho' years have multiplied 
Since first in boyhood's prime I gazed on thee, 
And thus amid thy towers held reverie ; 

Yet thou art fresh before me ! — even here 

Where glides, 'mid verdant banks, the gentle Lee 

I seem- to see thee, 'gainst the horizon clear, 

4nd oft thy many-billowed surge I fancy near. 



I Riga BALAAM. 12? 



DEATH OF SCHOMBEBO. 



BY DIGBY PILOT STARKET. 

[•'Frederick Schonberg, or Schomberg, first developed hiswarUka 
talents under the command of Henry and William II. of Orange; af- 
terwards obtained several victories over the Spaniards ; reinstated on 
the throne the house of Braganza; defeated in England the last hopes 
of the Stuarts; and finally died at the advanced age of eighty-two, at 
the battle of the Boyne, in 1690V'] 

'Twas on the day when Kings did fight beside theBoyne's 

dark water, 
And thunder roar'd from every height, and earth was 

red with slaughter, — 
That morn an aged chieftain stood apart from mustering 



And, from a height that crown'd the flood, surveyed 
broad Erin's lands. 

His hand upon his sword-hilt leant, bis war-horse stood 



And anxiously his eyes were bent across the rolling tide: 
He thought of what a changeful fate had borne him from 

the land 
Where frown'd his father's castle-gate,* high o'er the 

Bhenish strand, 

And plac'd before his opening view a realm where 

strangers bled, 
Where he, a leader, scarcely knew the tongue of those 

he led ! 



* Schonberg, or " the mount of beauty," is one of the most i 
eent of the many now ruinous castles that overhang the Rhine.- 
It had been the residence of the chiefs of a noble family of that name, 
which existed as far back as the time of Charlemagne, and of which 
the Duke of Schomberg was a member. 



128 book or 

He looked upon his chequered life, from boyhood's ear- 
liest time, 

Through scenes of tumult and of strife, endur'd in everf 
clime, 



To where the snows of eighty years usurped the raven'8 

stand, 
And still the din was in his ears, the broadsword in his 

hand! 
He turn'd him to futurity, beyond the battle plain, 
But then a shadow from on high hung o'er the heaps of 

slain ; — 



And through the darkness of the cloud, the chief's pro- 
phetic glance 

Beheld, with winding-sheet and shroud, his fatal hour 
advance : 

He quail'd not, as he felt him near th' inevitable stroke, 

But, dashing off one rising tear, 'twas thus the old man 
spoke : 

" God of my fathers ! death is nigh, my soul is not de- 
ceived — 

My hour is come, and I would die the conqueror I have 
liv'd; 

For thee, for freedom, have I stood — for both I fall to- 
day; 

Give me but victory for my blood, the price I gladly 
pay! 



' ' Forbid the future to restore a Stuart's despot-gloom, 
Or that, by freemen dreaded more, the tyranny of Home ! 
From either curse, let Erin freed, as prosperous ages 

run, 
Acknowledge what a glorious deed upon this day was 

done 1" 



iKISH BALLADS. 129 

He said : fete granted half his prayer. His steed ha 

straight bestrode, 
And fell, as on the routed rear of James's host he rode. 
He sleeps in a cathedral's gloom, * amongst the mighty 

dead, 
And frequent, o'er his hallow'd tomb, redeedful pilgrims 

tread. 
The other half, though fate deny, we'll strive for, one 

and all, 
And William's — Schoinberg's spirits nigh, we'll gain — c?, 

righting, fall 1 



THE BATTLE OF THE BOYNE. 
a.d. 1690. 

BY COLONEL BLACKER. 

It was upon a summer's morn, unclouded rose the stm, 

And lightly o'er the waving corn their way the breezea 
won ; 

Sparkling beneath that orient heam, 'mid hanks of ver- 
dure gay, 

Its eastward course a silver stream held smilingly away. 

A kingly host upon its side a monarch camp'd around, 
Its southern upland far and wide their white pavilions 

crowned ; 
Not long that sky unclouded show'd, nor long beneath 

the ray 
That gentle stream in silver flowed, to meet the new. 

born day. 

• St Patrick's, Dublin. 

I 



J30 



Throufeii yonder fairy -haunted glen, from out that dark 

ravine,* 
Is heard the tread of marching men, the gleam of armi 

is seen ; 
And plashing forth in bright array along yon verdant 

banks, 
All eager for the coming fray, are rang'd the martial 

ranks. 

Peals the loud gun — its thunders boom the echoing vales 

along, 
While curtain'd in its sulph'rous gloom moves on the 

gallant throng ; 
And foot and horse in mingled mass, regardless all of 

life, 
With furious ardour onward pass to join the deadly 

strife. 

Nor strange that with such ardent flame each glowing 

heart beats high, 
Their battle word was William's name, and " Death Of 

Liberty !" 
Then, Oldbridge, then thy peaceful bowers with sounds 

unwonted rang, 
And Tredagh, 'mid thy distant towers, was heard the 

mighty clang ; 

The silver stream is crimson'd wide, and clogg'd with 

many a corse, 
As floating down its gentle tide come mingled man and 

horse. 
Now fiercer grows the battle's rage, the guarded stream 

is cross'd, 
And furious, hand to hand engage each bold contending 

host; 

Ha falls — the veteran hero falls, f renowned along the 
iihine — 

* King William's Glen, near Townley Halt 
t Duke Schomberg. 



IRISH BALLADS. 131 

And ft*, whose name, while Derry's walls endure, shaft 

brightly shine.* 
Oh! 'would to heav'n that churchman bold, his aims 

with triumph blest, 
The soldier spirit had controll'd that fir'd his pious 

breast. 



And he, the chief of yonder brave and persecuted band,f 
Who foremost rush'd amid the wave, and gain'd the 

hostile strand ; — 
He bleeds, brave Caillemote — he bleeds — 'tis clos'd, his 

bright career, 
Yet still that band to glorious deeds his dying accents 

cheer. 



And now that well contested strand successive columns 

gain, 
While backward James's^yielding band are borne across 

the plain, 
in vain the sword green Erin draws, and life away doth 

fling— 
Oh ! worthy of a better cause and of a bolder king. 

In vain thy bearing bold is shown upon that blood. 

stain'd ground ; 
Thy tow'ring hopes are overthrown, thy choicest fall 

around. 
Nor, sham'd, abandon thou the fray, nor blush, though 

conquer'd there, 
A power against thee fights to-day no mortal arm may 

dare. 

Nay, look not to that distant height in hope of coming 

aid — 
The dastard thence has ta'en his flight, and left ^is men 

betray 'd. 

• Walker, the gallant defender of Perry. 

t Caillemote, who commanded a regiment of 



132 



Hurrah ! hurrah ! the victor shout in heard on high 

Donore ; 
Down Platten's vale, in hurried rout, thy shatter'd 

masses pour. 

But many a gallant spirit there retreats across the 

plain. 
Who, change hut kings, would gladly dare that hattle 

field again.* 
Enough 1 enough ! the victor cries ; your fierce pursuit 

forbear, 
Let grateful prayer to heaven arise, and vanquished 

freemen spare. 

Hurrah! hurrah! for liberty, for her the sword we 

drew, 
And dar'd the battle, while on high our Orange banners 

flew; 
Woe worth the hour — woe worth the state, when meif 

shall cease to join 
With grateful hearts to celebrate the glorie* ~«f the 

Boyae ! 



ma RiiMtt* «n tne expreBion attributed to Saraiia'4— " 
tdti££. uui we will fight the battle otst «snto." 



DESCRIPTIVE BALLADS, 



LAMENT OVER THE RUINS OF THE 
ABBEY OF 

TRANSLATED FROM TBS. IRISH. 
BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A. 

Lone and weary as I wander'd by the bleak shore of the 

sea, 
Meditating and reflecting on the world's hard destiny, 
Forth the moon and stars 'gan glimmer, in the quiet 

tide beneath, 
For on slumbering spring and blossom breathed not out 

of heaven a breath. 

On I went in sad dejection, careless where my footsteps 

bore, 
Till a ruined church b jfi-re me opened wide its an nt 

door, — 
Till I stood before the portals, where ot old were wont 

to be, 
For the blind, the halt, and leper, alms and hospital >y 

* Teach Molaga— " The House of St. Molaga"— now failed Ttrao 
league ta Munster. Mangan has also translated his poem very finely 
According to him, the author was John O'Cullen, a native of Cork, wha 
lied in the year 1816. 



134 book or 

Still the ancient seat was standing, built against the 

buttress gray, 
Where the clergy used to welcome weary trav'llers on 

their way ; 
There I sat me down in sadness, 'neath my cheek I 

placed my hand, 
Till the tears fell hot and briny down upon the grassy 

land 

There, I said in woful sorrow, weeping bitterly the 

while, 
Was a time when joy and gladness reigned within this 

ruined pile ; — 
Was a time when bells were tinkling, clergy preaching 

peace abroad, 
Psalms a-singing, music ringing praises to tne mighty 

God. 

Empty aisle, deserted chancel, tower tottering to your 

fall, 
Many a storm since then has beaten on the gray head of 

your wall ! 
Many a bitter storm and tempest has your roof-tree 

turned away, 
Since you first were formed a temple to the Lord of 

night and day. 

Holy house of ivied gables, that were once the country's 
Luast, 

Houseless now in weary wandering are you scattered, 
saintly host ; 

Lone you are to-day, and dismal, — joyful psalms no more 
are heard, 

Where, within your choir, her vesper screeches the cat- 
headed bird. 

Ivy ioni your eaves is growing, nettles round your 

green hearthstone, 
Winds howl where, in your corners, dropping waters make 

their moan • 



HUSH BALLADS. 135 

Where the lark to early matins used your clergy forth 

to call, 
There, alas ! no tongue is stirring, save the daws upon 

tne wall. 

Refectory cold and empty, dormitory hleak and bare, 
Where are now jour pious uses, simple bed and frugal 

fare? 
Gone your abbot, rule and order, broken down your 

altar stones ; 
Nought I see beneath your shelter, save a heap of clayey 

bones. 

Oh ! the hardship — oh ! the hatred, tyranny, and cruel 

war, 
Persecution and oppression that have left you as you 

are 1 
I myself once also prospered ; — mine is, too, an altered 

plight ; 
Trouble, care, and age have left me good for nought 

but grief to-night. 

Gone, my motion and my vigour, — gone, the use of eye 
and ear ; 

At my feet lie friends and children, powerless and cor- 
rupting here ; - 

Wo is written ou my visage, in a nut my heart would 
lie— 

Death's deliverance were welcome — Father, ker ia@ old 
man die. 



AVONDHU. 

BY' J. J. CALLANAN. 

[Avondhu— The Black-water, Ayunduff of Spenser. There are iw e. 
ral rivers of this name in the counties of Cork and Kerry, hut the ou< 
here me-.itioned is by far the most considerable. It rises in a moun- 
tain called Meenganine, in the latter county, and discharges itself la* C 
the sea at Youjrhal. For the length of its course, and the beauty aai 
variety of scenery tiuvnigh which it flows, it is superior to any river In 

•] 

Oh, Avondhu, I -wish I were 

As once upon that mountain bare, 

Where thy young waters laugh and shia2 

Or the wild breast of Meenganine. 

1 wish I were by Cleada's* hill, 

Or by Glenruachra's rushy rill ; 

But no ! I never more shall view 

Those scenes I loved by Avondhu. 

Farewell, ye soft and purple streaks 
Of evening on the beauteous Reeks ; f 
Farewell ye mists, that loved to ride 
On Cahirbearna's stormy side. 
Farewell, November's moaning breeze, 
Wild minstrel of the dying trees : 
Clara ! a fond farewell to you, 
No more we meet by Avondhu. 

No more — but thou, O glorious hill, 
Lift to the moon thy forehead still ; 
Flow on, flow on, thou dark swift river, 
Upon thy free wild course for ever. 
Exult young hearts in lifetime's spring, 
And taste the joys pure love can bring; 
But wanderer go, they're not for you — 
Farewell, farewell, sweet Avondhu. 



k and Cahirbearna (the hill of the four gaps) form part o tha 
chain of mountains which stretches westward from Mill-strsat to 
Killarney. 
t MacgiJ ^cuddy's Reeks, in the neighbourhood of Killarney. 



SBI8H BALLADS. 13? 



THE ROCK OF CASHEL. 

BY THE REV. DR. MURRAY. 

Fair was that eve, as if from earth away 

All trace of sin and sorrow- 
Passed, in the light of the eternal day, 

That knows nor night nor morrow. 

The pale and shadowy mountains, in the dim 

And glowing distance piled ! 
A sea of light along the horizon's rim, 

Unbroken, undefiled! 

Blue sky, and cloud, and grove, and hill, and glea» 

The form and face of man 
Beamed with unwonted beauty, as if thea 

New earth and heaven bega 

Yet heavy grief was on me, and I gazed 

On thee through gushing tears, 
Thou relic of a glory that once blazed 

So bright in bygone years 1 

Wreck of a ruin ! lovelier, holier far, 
Thy ghastly hues of death, 

Than the cold forms of newer temples are- 
Shrines of a priestless faith. 

In lust and rapine, treachery and blood, 

Its iron domes were built ; 
Darkly they frown, where God's own altars stood, 

In hatred and in guilt. 

But to make thee, of loving hearts the love, 

Was coined to living stone ; 
Truth, peace, and piety together strove 

To form thee for their own. 



And thou wast theirs, and they within thee met, 

And did thy presence fill ; 
And their sweet light, even while thine own is seta 

Hovers around thee still. 

'Tis not the work of mind, or hand, or eye, 

Builder's or sculptor's skill, 
Thy site, thy beauty, or thy majesty — 

Not these my bosom thrill. 

'Tis that a glorious monument thou art, 

Of the true faith of old, 
When faith was one in all the nation's heart, 

Purer than purest gold. 

A light, when darkness on the nations dwelt, 

In Erin found a home — 
The mind of Greece, the warm heart of the Cell, 

The bravery of Rome. 

But ! the pearl, the gem, the glory of ner youth,) 

That shone ipon her brow ; 
She clung for ever to the Chair of Truth — 

Clings to it now 1 

Love of my love, and temple of my God ! 

How would I now clasp thee 
Close to my heart, and, even as thou wast trod, 

So with thee trodden be ! 

O, for one. hour a thousand years ago, 

Within thy precincts dim, 
To hear the chant, in deep and measured flow, 

Of psalmody and hymn ! 

To see of priests the long and white array. 

Around thy silver shrines — 
The people kneeling prostrate far away, 

In thick and chequer'd lines. 



IRISH BALLADS. 189 

To see the Prince of Cashel o'er the rest, 

Their prelate and their king. 
The sacred bread and chalice by him blest, 

Earth's holiest offering. 

To hear, in piety's own Celtic tongue, 

The most heart-touching prayer 
That fervent suppliants e'er was heard among, — 

O, to be then and there I 

There was a time all this within thy walls 

Was felt, and heard, and seen ; 
Faint image only now thy sight recals 

Of all that once hath been. 

The creedless, heartless, murderous robber came, 

And never since that time 
Round thy torn altars burned the sacrea name, 

Or rose the chant sublime. 

Thy glory in a crimson tide went down, 

Beneath the cloven hoof — 
Altar and priest, mitre, and cope, and crown, 

And choir, and arch, and roof. 

O, but to see thee, when thou wilt rise again — 

For thou again wilt rise, 
And with the splendours of thy second reign 

Dazzle a nation's eyes 1 

Children of those who made thee what thou wast, 

Shall lift thee from the tomb, 
And clothe thee, for the spoiling of the past. 

In more celestial bloom. 

And psalm, and hymn, and gold, and precious stones 

And gems beyond all price, 
A&d priest, and altar, o'er the martyr's uones, 

And daily sacrifice, 



\to 



And endless prayer, and crucifix, and shrine. 

And all religion's dower, 
And thronging worshippers shall yet be thine— 

O, but to see that hour ! 

And who shall smite thee then ? — and who shall see 

Thy second glory o'er ? 
TVnen they who make thee free themselves are free, 

To fall no more. 



LOCH INA. 

A BEAUTIFUL SALT-WATER LAKK, IN THE COUNTS OS 
CORK, NEAR BALTIMORE. 

1 know a lake where the cool waves break, 

And softly fall on the silver sand — 
And no steps intrude on that solitude, 

And 110 voice, save mine, disturbs the strand. 

And a mountain bold like a giant of old 
Tun.ed to stone by some magic spell, 

Uprear* in might his misty height, 
And his craggy sides are wooded well. 

In the midst doth smile a little Isle, 

And its verdure shames the emerald's green — 

On its grassy side, in ruined pride, 
A casde of old is darkling seen. 

On its lofty crest the wild crane's nest, 
In its halls the sheep good shelter find ; 

And the ivy shades where a hundred blades 
Were hung, when the owners in sleep reclined. 

That chieftain of old could he now behold 

His lordly tower a shepherd's pen, 
His corpse, long dead, from its narrow bed 

Would rise, with anger and sh&rae agaia. 



IUISn BALLADS. 141 

'Tis sweet to gaze when the sun's bright rays 

Are cooling themselves in the trembling wave- 
Bet 'tis sweeter far when the evening star 
Shines like a smile at Friendship's grave. 

There the hollow shells, through their wreathed cells, 

Make music on the silent shore, 
As the summer breeze, through the distant trees, 

Murmurs in fragrant breathings o'er. 

And the sea-weed shines, like the hidden mines 

Of the fairy cities beneath the sea : 
And the wave- washed stones are bright as the thronea 

Of the ancient Kings of Araby. 

If it were my lot in that fairy spot 

To live for ever, and dream 'twere mine, 

Courts might woo, and kings pursue, 
Ere I would leave thee — Loved Loch-Ine. 



THE RETURNED EXILE. 

BY B. SIJUfONS. 

Blue Corrin! how softly the evening light goes, 
Fading far o'er thy summit from ruby to rose, 
As if loth to deprive the deep woodlands below 
Of the love and the glory they drink in its glow : 
Oh, home-looking Hill ! how beloved dost thou riju 
Once more to my sight through the shadowy skies , 
Watching still, in thy sheltering grandeur unfurled, 
The landscape to me that so long was the world. 
Fair evening — blest evening ! one moment delay 
Till the tears of the Pilgrim are dried in thy ray — 
Tiii he feels that through years of long absence, not 01 
Of his friends — the lone rock and gray ruin — is gone. 



142 BOOK OF 

Not one : — as I wind the sheer fastnesses through, 
The valley of boyhood is bright in my view ! 
Once again my glad spirit its fetterless flight 
May wing through a sphere of unclouded delight, 
O'er one maze of broad orchard, green meadow, and 

slope — 
From whose tints I once pictured the pinions of hope ; 
Still the hamlet gleams white — still the church yews are 

weeping, 
Where the sleep of the peaceful my fathers are sleeping; 
The vane tells, as usual, its fib from the mill, 
But the wheel tumbles loudly and merrily still, 
And the tower of the Eoches stands lonely as ever, 
With its grim shadow rusting the gold of the river. 

My own pleasant River, bloom-skirted, behold, 
Now sleeping in shade, now refulgently rolled, 
Where long through the landscape it tranquilly flows, 
Scarcely breaking, Glen-coorah, thy glorious repose ! 
By the Park's lovely pathways it lingers and shine3, 
Where the cushat's low call, and the murmur of pines. 
And the lips of the lily seem wooing its stay 
'Mid their odorous dells; — but 'tis off arid away, 
Rushing out through the clustering oaks, in whosa 

shade, 
Like a bird in the branches, an arbour I made, 
Where the blue eyes of Eve often closed o'er the book, 
While I read of stout Sindbad, or voyaged with Cook. 

Wild haunt of the Harper ! I stand by thy spring, 
Whose waters of silver still sparkle and fling 
Their wealth at my feet, — and I catch the deep glow, 
As in long-vanished hours, of the lilacs that blow 
By the low cottage porch — and the same crescent moon 
That then ploughed, like a pinnace, the purple of June, 
Is white on Glen-duff, and all blooms as unchanged 
As if years had not passed since thy greenwood I 

ranged — 
As if one were not fled, who imparted a soul 
Of divinest enchantment and grace to the whole, 
Whose being was bright as that fair moon above, 
kud all deep and all pure as thy waters her love. 



fhou long-vanished Angel ! whose faithfulness threw 

O'er my gloomy existence one glorified hue ! 

Dost thou still, as of yore, when the evening grows 

din,, 
And the blackbird by Downing is hushing its hymn, 
Remember the bower by the Funcheon's blue side 
Where the whispers were soft as the kiss of the tide? 
Dost thou still think, with pity and peace on thy brow, 
Of him who, toil-harassed and time-shaken now, 
While the last light of day, like his hopes, has departed, 
On the turf thou hast hallowed, sinks down weary- 
hearted, 
And calls on thy name, and the night-breeze that sighs 
Through the boughs that once blest thee is all that 
replies ? 

But thy summit, far Corrin, is fading in gray, 
And the moonlight grows mellow on lonely Cloughlea; 
And the laugh of the 3 r oung, as they loiter about 
Through the elm-shaded alleys, rings joyously out : 
Happy souls ! they have yet the dark chalice to taste, 
And like others to wander life's desolate waste — 
To hold wassail with sin, or keep vigil with woe ; 
But the same fount of yearning, wherever they go, 
Welling up in their heart-depths, to turn at the last 
(As the stag when the barb in his bosom is fast) 
To their lair in the hills, on their childhood that rose 
And find the sole blessing I seek for — repose ! 



GLENFINISHK.* 

BY JOSEPH O'LEABY. 

Glsnfinishk ! where thy waters mix with Aaaglen'a 

wild tide, 
Tis sweet, at hush of evening, to wander by thy side ! 

• Glenfinishk (tiie glen of the fair waters), in the county of C«r fc. 



K4 BOOK OF 

'Tis sweet to hear the night-winds sigh along Macran&'t 

wood, 
And mingle their wild music with the murmur of thy 

flood! 



'Tis swpp.ik when in the deep blue vault the mornisshin- 

Lig bright, 
To watch where thy clear waters are breaking into light ; 
To mark the starry sparks that o'er thy smoother surface 

gleam, 
As if some fairy hand were flinging diamonds on thy 



Oh ! if departed spirits e'er to this- dark world return, 

"Tis in some lonely, lovely spot like this they would so- 
journ ; 

Whate'er their mystic rites may be, no human eye is 
here, 

Save mine, to mark their mystery — no human voice is 
near. 

At such an hour, in such a scene, I could forget my 

birth— 
I could forget I e'er have been, or am, a thing of earth ; 
Shake off the fleshly bonds that hold my soul in thrall, 

and be 
Even like themselves, a spirit, as boundless and as free 1 



Ye shadowy race ! if we believe the tales of legends old, 
Ye sometimes hold high converse with those of mortal 

mould : 
Oh ! come, whilst now my soul is free, and bear me in 

your train, 
Ue'er to return to misery and this dark world again ! 



IRISH BALLADS. 146 



THE MOUNTAIN FERN. 

BT THE AUTHOR OF " THE MONKS OF KILCREA." 

Oh, the Fern ! the Fern !_the Irish hill Fern !_ 

That girds our blue lakes from Lough Ine * to Lough 

Erne, 
That waves on our crags, like the plume of a king, 
And bends, like a nun, over clear well and spring ! 
The faiiy's tall palm tree ! the heath bird's fresh nest, 
And the couch the red deer deems the sweetest and best, 
With the free winds to fan it, and dew drops to gem, — 
Oh, what can ye match with its beautiful stem ? 
From the shrine of Saint Finbar, by lone Avonbuie, 
To the halls of Dunluce, with its towers by the sea, 
From the hill of Knockthu to the rath of Moyvore, 
Like achaplet it circles our green island o'er, — 
In the bawn of the chief, by the anchorite's cell, 
On the hill top, or greenwood, by streamlet or well, 
With a spell on each leaf, which no mortal can learn t— 
Oh, there never was plant like the Irish hill Fern ! 

Oh, the Fern ! the Fern !— the Irish hill Fern !_ 

That shelters the weary, or wild roe, or kern. 

Thro' the glens of Kilcoe rose a shout on the gale, 

As the Saxons rushed forth, in their wrath, from the Pale) 

With bandog and bloodhound, all savage to see, 

To hunt thro' Clunealla the wild Rapparee ! 

Hark ! a cry from yon dell on the startled ear rings, 

And forth from the wood the young fugitive springs, 

Thro' the copse, o'er the bog, and, oh, saints be his 

guide ! 
His fleet step now falters — there's blood on his side — 
Yet onward he strains, climbs the cliff, fords the stream 
And sinks on the hill top, mid brachen leaves green, 

* Lorgn Ine, a singularly romantic lake in the -western mountains 
Of Cork; of LoOfrh Erne, I hope to Irishmen it is unnecessary to speak. 

t Tne fortunate discoverer of the fern seed is supposed to obtaiafibt 
pf«v er f rendering himself invisible ** pleasure. 



U6 BOOK o? 

And thick o'er his brow are their fresh clusters piled. 
And they cover his form, as a mother her child ; 
And the Saxon is baffled ! — they never discern 
Where it shelters and saves him — the Irish hill Fern! 

Oh, the Fern ! the Fern ! — the Irish hill Fern ! — 
That pours a wild keen o'er the hero's gray cairn ; 
Go, hear it at midnight, when stars are all out, 
And the wind o'er the hill side is moaning about, 
With a rustle and stir, and a low wailing tone 
That thrills thro' the heart with its whispering lone, 
And ponder its meaning, when haply you stray 
Where the halls of the stranger in ruin decay. 
With night owls for warders, the goshawk for guest, 
And their dais* of honor by cattle-hoofs prest — 
With its fosse choked with rushes, and spider-webs 

flung, 
Over walls where the marchmen their red weapons 

hung, 
With a curse on their name, and a sigh for the hour 
That tarries so long — look ! what waves on the tower ? 
With an omen and sign, and an augury stern, 
'Tis the Green Flag of Time 1^ — 'tis the Irish hill Fern \ 



ADARE.f 

HY GERALD GRIFFIN. 

Oh, sweet Adare ! oh, lovely vale ! 

Oh, soft retreat of sylvan splendour 1 
Nor summer sun, nor mornins gale 

E'er hailed a scene more softly tender. 

• The dais was an elevated portion of the great hall or dining-ro. 
Bet apart in feudal times for those of gentle blood, and was, in coi 
imence, regarded with peculiar feelings of veneration and respect 

t This beautiful and interesting locality is about eight miles t 
Limerick. 



IRISH BALLADS. U7 

?«?* shall I tell the thousand charms 
Within thy verdant bosom dwelling, 

Where, lulled in Nature's fost'ring arms, 
.Soft peace abides and joy excelling! 

Ye morning airs, how sweet at dawn 

The slumbering boughs yo^ir song awaken, 
Or linger o'er the silent lawn, 

With odour of the harebell taken. 
Thou rising sun, how richly gleams 

Thy smile from far Knockfierna's mountain, 
O'er waving woods and bounding streams, 

And many a grove and glancing fountain. 

Ye clouds of noon, how freshly there, 

When summer heats the open meadows, 
O'er parched hill and valley fair, 

All cooly lie your veiling shadows. 
Ye rolling shades and vapours gray, 

Slow creeping o'er the golden heaven, 
How soft ye seal the eye of day, 

And wreath the dusky brow of even. 

In sweet Adare, the jocund spring 

His notes of odorous joy is breathing, 
The wild birds in the woodland sing, 

The wild flowers in the vale are breathing 
There winds the Mague, as silver clear, 

Among the elms so sweetly flowing, 
There fragrant in the early year, 

Wild roses on the banks are blowing. 

The wild duck seeks the sedgy bank, 

Or dives beneath the glistening billow. 
Where graceful droop and clustering dank 

The osier bright and rustling willow. 
The hawthorn scents the leafy dale, 

In thicket lone the stag is belling, 
And sweet along the echoing vale 

The sound of vernal joy is swelling. 



THE VALE OF SHANGAUAK. 

BY D. F. M'CARTHT. 

[By the " Vale of Shanganah," I understand the entire of that t>es» 
tiful panorama which stretches out from the foot of Killiney Hill to 
Bray Head, and from the " White Strand" to the Sugar Loaf Moun- 
tains. Few inhabitants of Dublin require to be informed that tn« 
ancient Irish name of these picturesque mountains is a word which 
«eans " The Golden Spears," and that by Sen Heder is meant the Hill 
of Howth.] 

When I have knelt in the Temple of Duty, 
Worshipping honour and valour and beauty — 
When, like a brave man, in fearless resistance, 
I have fought the good fight on the field of existence! 
When a home I have won by a long life of labour. 
By the thoughts of my soul or the steel of my sabre — 
Be that home a calm home where my old age may 

rally, 
A home full of peace in this sweet pleasant valley . 

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 

May the accents of love, like the droppings of 
manna, 

Eall sweet on my heart in the Vale of Shanganah ! 

Fair is this isle — this dear child of the ocean — 
Nurtured with more than a mother's devotion ; 
For see ! in what rich robes has Nature arrayed her, 
From the waves of the west to the cliffs of Ben Heder, 
By Glengariff's lone islets — Loch Lene's fairy water, 
So lovely was each, that then matchless I thought her ; 
But I feel, as I stray through each sweet-seen to- 1 alley, 
Less wild but more fair is this soft verdant valley ! 

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Slianganah ! 

No wide-spreading prairie — no Indian savanna, 

So dear to the eye as the Vale of Shanganah 1 



IHISH BALLADS. 14H 

How pleased, how delighted, the rapt eye reposes 
On the picture of beauty this valley discloses, 
From that margin of silver, whereon the blue water 
Doth glance like the eyes of the ocean foam's daughter ! 
To where, with the red clouds of morning combining, 
The tall " Golden Spears" o'er the mountains are 

shining, 
With the hue of their heather, as sunlight advances, 
Like purple flags furled round the staffs of the lances ! 

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 

No lands far away by the calm Susquehannah, 

So tranquil and fair as the Vale of Shanganah ! 

But here, even here the lone heart were benighted, 

No beauty could reach it, if love did not light it ; 

'Tia that makes the Earth, oh ! what mortal can doubt 

it? 
A garden with it — but a desert without it ! 
With the lov'd one, to whom, thoughtful feeling doth 

teach her, 
That goodness of heart makes the beauty of feature ' 
How glad, through this vale, would I float down jfe'a 

river, 
Enjoying God's bounty, and blessing the Giver! 

Sweetest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah ! 

Greenest of vales is the Vale of Shanganah! 

May the accents of love, like the droppings of 
manna, 

Fall sweet on viy heart in the Vale of Shanganah ! 



ISO 



DEIRDRE'S FAREWELL TO ALBA, " 

BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.B.I.A. 

Farewell to fair Alba, high house of the sun, 
Farewell to the mountain, the cliff, and the dun ; 
Dun Sweeny adieu ! for my love cannot stay, 
And tarry I may not when love cries away. 

Glen Vashan ! Glen Vashan 1 where roe-bucks run free, 
Where my love used to feast on the red deer with me, 
Where rocked on thy waters while stormy winds blew 
My love used to slumber, Glen Vashan adieu 1 

Glendaro ! Glendaro ! where birchen boughs weep 
Honey dew at high noon o'er the nightingale's sleep, 
Where my love used to lead me to hear the cuckoo 
Mong the high hazel bushes, Glendaro, adieu 1 

Glen Urchy ! Glen Urchy 1 where loudly and long 
My love used to wake up the woods with his song, 
While the son of the rock, from the depths of the dell, 
Laughed sweetly in answer, Glen Urchy, farewell ] 

Glen Etive ! Glen Etive ! where dappled does roam, 
Where I leave the green sheeting I first called a home 
Where with me and my true love delighted to dwell. 
The sun made his mansion, Glen Etive, farewell 1 

Farewell to Inch Draynach, adieu to the roar 
Of the blue billows bursting in light on the shore ; 
Dun Fiagh, farewell ! for my love cannot stay, 
4ad tarry I may not when love cries away. 

•ScoOani 



IRISH BALLADS. Ifil 



A SIGH FOR KNOCKMANY. 

BY WILLIAM CARLETON. 

Take, proud ambition, take thy fill 

Of pleasures won through toil or crimes 
Go, learning, climb thy rugged hili. 

And give thy name to future time; 
Philosophy, be keen to see 

Whate'er is j ust, or false, or vain, 
Take each thy meed, but, oh ! give me 

To range my mountain glens again. 



Pure was the breeze Jhat fann'd my cheek. 

As o'er Knockmany's brow I went; 
When every lonely dell could speak 

In airy music, vision sent : 
False world, I hate thy cares and thee, 

I hate the treacherous haunts of men ; 
Give back my early heart to me, 

Give back to me my mountain glen. 



How light my youthful visions shone, 

When spann'd by fancy's radiant form ; 
But now her glittering bow is gone, 

And leaves me but the cloud and storm. 
With wasted form, and cheek all pale — 

With heart long scared by grief and pain j 
Dunroe, I'll seek thy native gale, 

I'll tread my mountain glens again. 



Thy breeze once more may fan my bloods 
Thy vallies all, are lovely still ; 

And I may stand, where oft I stood. 
In lonely musings on thy bUl. 



152 



But ah ! the spell is gone ; — no art 
In crowded town, or native plain, 

Can teach a crusn n wm creaking heart 
To pipe the song of youth again. 



TIPPERARY. 



Were you ever in sweet Tipperary, where the fields are 

so sunny and green, 
And the heath-brown Slieve-bloom and the Galtees look 

down with so proud a mien ' 
Tis there you would see more beauty tnan is on all 

Irish ground — 
God bless you, my sweet Tipperary, tor where could 

your match be found ? 



They say that your hand is fearful, that darkness is in 

your eye : 
But I'll not let them dare to talk so black and bitter a 

lie. 
Oh ! no, macushla storin ! bright, bright, and warm are 

you, 
With hearts as bold as the men of old, to yourselves and 

your country true. 



And when there is gloom unon you, bid them think who 

has brought it tnere — 
Sure a frown or a word of hatred was not made for your 

face so fair ; 
You've a hand for the grasp of friendship — another tffi 

make them quake, 
And they're welcome to wnichsoever it please* thera 

most tc takf . 



IRISH BALLADS. 153 

Shall our homes, like the huts of Connaught, he crmn> 
bled before our eyes ? 

Shall we fly; like a flock of wild geese, from all that we 
love and prize ? 

Ho! by those who were here before us, no churl shall 
our tyrant be ; 

Our land it is theirs by plunder, but, by Brigid, our- 
selves are free. 

No ! we do not forget the greatness did once to sweet 

Eire belong ; 
No treason or craven spirit was ever our race among ; 
And no frown or no word of hatred we give— but to pay 

them back ; 
In evil we only follow our enemies' darksome track. 

Oh ! come for a while among us, and give us the 

friendly hand ; 
And you'll see that old Tipperary is a loving and glad« 

some land ; 
From Upper to Lower Orraond, bright welcomes sod 

jttVs will spring-- 
Oa fche plains of Tipperary tlie stranger is tike a feiog, 



^ZGrENDARY BALLADS. 



THE WELSHMEN OF TIRAWLE7. 



BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, H.R.I.A. 

[Several Welsh families, associates in the invasion of Strongtxnp, 
settled in the west of Ireland. Of these, the principal whose names 
Lave been preserved by the Irish antiquarians were the Walshes, 
Joyces, Heils (,a quibus MacIIale), Lawlesses, Tolmyns, Lynotts, and 
Barretts, which last draw their pedigree from Walynus, son of Guyn- 
dally. the Ard Maor, or High .Steward of the Lordship of Caiuelot and 
had their chief sea f s in the territory of the two Bacs, in the barony of 
Tirawley, and county of Mayo. Cloghan ann'dall, i "the Klind 
Mens Stepping stones," are still pointed out on the Duvowen river, 
about four miles north of C/ossmolina. in thetownlandoffinrranard; and 
Tultber na Scorney, or "Scrag's Well," in the opposite townland oi 
Cams, in the same barony. For a curious terrier or applotment of tha 
Mac William s revenue, as acquired under the circumstances stated in 
the legend preserved by Mac Kirbis, see Mr. O'l'ono\an's highly- 
learned and interesting "Genealogies, &c. of Hy Fiachrach," in the 
publications of the Irish Archaeological Society— a. great monmneat 
of antiquarian and topographical erudition.] 

Scorney Bwee, the Barretts' bailiff, lewd and lame. 
To lift the Lynott's taxes when he came, 
Rude'y drew a young maid to him ; 
Thtti tr;e Lynotts rose and slew him, 
And in Tubber-na-Scorney threw him — 

Small your blame, 

Sons of Lynott ! 
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 



IRISH BALLADS. 15"> 

Then the Barretts to the Lynotts gave a choice, 
Saying, "Hear, ye murderous brood, men and boys, 
Choose ye now, without delay, 
Will ye lose your eyesight, say, 
Or your manhoods, here to-day ?" 

Sad your choice, 

Sous of Lynctt ! 
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen oi 1 jawley. 

Then the little boys of the Lynotts, weeping, said, 

" Only leave us our eyesight in our head." 

But the bearded Lynotts then 

Quickly answered back again, 

" Take our eyes, but leave us men, 

Alive or dead, 

Sons of Wat tin !" 
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 

So the Barretts, with sewing-needles sharp and smooth, 
Let the light out of the eyes of every vouth, 
And of every bearded man 
Of the broken Lynott clan ; 
Then their darkened faces wan 

Turning south 

To the river — . 
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 

O'er the slippery stepping-stones of Cloehan-a-n'dail 
They drove them, laughing loud at every fall, 
As their wandering footsteps dark 
Failed to reach the slippery mark, 
And the swift stream swallowed stark, 

One and all, 

As they stumbled — 
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tira7»b7. 

Out of all the blinded Lynotts, one alone 
Walked erect from stepping-stone to stona ; 
So back again they brought you, 
And a second time they wrought you 



£56 



With their needles ; but never got you 

Once to groan, 

Emon Lynott, 
For the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawlqy. 

But with prompt-projected footsteps sure as ever, 
Emon Lynott again crossed the river, 
Though Duvowen was rising fast, 
And the shaking stones o'ercasfc 
By cold floods boiling past ; 

Yet you never, 

Emon Lynott, 
Faltered once before your foemen of Tirawley J 

But, turning on Ballintubber bank, you stood, 
And the Barretts thus bespoke o'er the flood — 
" Oh, ye foolish sons of Wattin, 
6mall amends are these you've gotten, 
For, while Scorney Bwee lies rotten, 

I am good 

For vengeance !" 
Sinsr the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tiruwlt/. 

" For 'tis neither in eye nor eyesight that a maa 

Bears the fortunes of himself or of his clan ; 

But in the manly mind 

And in loins with vengeance lined, 

That your needles could never aid, 
Though they i*n 
Through my heartstrings !" 

Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 

*' But, little your worn™ * ..tidies do I reck ; 
For the night from heaven never fell so black, 
But Tirawley, and abroad 
From the Moy to Cuan-an-fod, 
I could walk it every sod, 

Path and track, 

Ford and togher, 
Seeking vengeance on you, Barretts of Tirawley ! 



IRISH BALLADS. 151 

'* The night when Pathy O'Dowda broke your canape 
Wliat Barrett among you was it held the lamp — 
Showed the way to those two feet, 
"When through wintry wind and sleet, 
I guided your blind retreat 

In the swamp 

Of Beal-an-asa ? 
O ye vengeance-destined ingrates of Tirawley !** 

So leaving loud-shriek-eehoing Garranard, 
The Lynott like a red dog hunted hard, 
With his wife and children seven, 
'Mong the beasts and fowls of heaven 
In the hollows of Glen Nephin, 

Light-debarred, 

Made his dwelling, 
Planning vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley. 

And ere the bright-orb'd year its course had run, 
On his brown round-knotted knee he nursed a son, 
A child of light, with eyes 
As clear as are the skies 
In summer, when sunrise 

Has begun ; 

So the Lynott 
Nursed his vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley 

And, as ever the bright boy grew in strength and siaet 
Made him perfect in each manly exercise, 
The salmon in the flood, 
The dun deer in the wood, 
The eagle in the cloud 

To surprise, 

On Ben Nephin, 
Far above the foggy fields of Tirawley. 

With the yellow-knotted spear-shaft, with the bo^ ( 
With the steel, prompt to deal shot and blow, 
He taught him from year to year 
And trained him, without a peer, 



For a perfect cavalier, 

Hoping so — 

Far his forethought — 
For vengeance on the Barretts of Tirawley. 

And, when mounted on his proud-bounding ste©£. 
Emon Oge sat a cavalier indeed ; 
Like the ear upon the wheat 
When winds in autumn beat 
On the bending stems, his seat ; 

And the speed 

Of his courser 
Was the wind from Barna-na-gee o'er Tirawley ! 

Now when fifteen sunny summers thus were spent, 
(lie perfected in all accomplishment) — 
The Lynott said, " My child, 
We are over long exiled 
From mankind in this wild — 

— Time we went 

O'er the mountaiu 
To the countries lying over-against Tirswlcy." 

So out over mountain-moors, and mosses brown, 
And green stream-gathering vales, thev ioumcved 

dow n ; 
Till, shining like a star. 
Through the dusky gleams afar, 
The bailey of Castlebar, 

And the town 
Of Mac William 
Rose bright before the wanderers of Tirawley. 

"Look southward, my boy, and tell me as we go, 

What setst thou by the loch-head below." 

" Oh, a stone-house strong and great, 

And a horse-host at the gate, 

And their captain in armour of plate — 

Grand the show ! 

Great the glancing ! 
High the heroes of this land below Tirawley f 



IK18H BALLADS. lm 

" And a beautiful Bantierna by his side, 
Yellow gold on all her gown-sleeves v.'iue ; 
And in her hand a pearl 

Of a young, little, fair-haired girl 

Said the Lynott, " It is the Earl! 

Let us ride 

To his presence." 
And before him came the exiles of Tirawley. 

" God save thee, Mac William, " the Lynott thus begaa; 

" God save all here besides of this clan ; 

For gossips dear to me 

Are all in company — 

For in these four bones ye see 

A kindly man 

Of the Britons — 
Emon Lynott of Garranard of Tirawley. 

" And hither, as kindly gossip-law allows, 

I come to claim a scion of thy house 

To foster ; for thy race, 

Since William Conquer's* days, 

Have ever been wont to place, 

Witli some spouse 

Of a Briton, 
A Mac William Oge, to foster in Tirawley. 

" And to show thee in what sort our youth are taught, 
I have hither to thy home of valour brought 
This one son of my age, 
For a sample and a pledge 
For the equal tutelage. 

In right thought, 

Word, and action, 
Of whatever son ye give into Tirawley." 

When Mac William beheld the brave boy ride and ttWj 
Saw the spear-shaft from bis white shoulder spun — 

" Williso Fit* Adelm de Borgiio, the conqueror of 



169 Book of 

With a sigh, and with a smile, 
He said, — '.' I would give the spoil 
Of a county, that Tibbot Moyle, 

My own son, 

Were accomplished 
Like this branch of the kindly Britons of Tirawley " 

When the Lady Mac William she heard him speak 

And saw the ruddy roses on his cheek, 

She said, " I would give a purse 

Of red gold to the nurse 

That would rear my Tibbot no worse ; 

But I seek 

Hitherto vainly — 
Heaven grant that I now have found her in Tirawley I" 

So they said to the Lynott, " Here, take our hird ! 
And as pledge for the keeping of thy word, 
Let this scion here remain 
Till thou comest back again : 
Meanwhile the fitting train 

Of a lord 

Shall attend thee 
With the lordly heir of Cannaught into Tiraw'cy/" 

So back to strong-throng-gathering Garranard, 
Like a lord of the country with his guard, 
Came the Lynott, before them all. 
Once again over Clochan-an'dall, 
Steady-striding, erect, and tall, 

And his ward 

On his shoulders ; 
To the wonder of the Welshman of Tirawley. 

Then a diligent foster-father you would deem 
The Lynott, teaching Tibbot, by mead and stream. 
To cast the spear, to ride, 
To stem the rushing tide, 



IRISH BALLADS. 161 

With what feats of body beside, 

Might beseem 

A Mac William, 
Fostered free among the Welshmen of Tirawley. 

But the lesson of hell he taught him in heart and niindj 

For to what desire soever he inclined, 

Of anger, lust, or pride, 

He had it gratified, 

Till he ranged the circle wide 

Of a blind 

Self-indulgence, 
Ere he came to youthful manhood in Tirawley. 

Then, even as when a hunter slips a hound, 

Lynott loosed him — God's leashes all unbound 

In the pride of power and station, 
And the strength of youthful passion, 
On the daughters of thy nation, 

All around, 

Wattin Barrett ! 
Oh ! the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley ! 

Bitter grief and burning anger, rage and shame, 
Filled the houses of the Barretts where'er he came ; 
Till the young men of the Bae 
Drew by night upon his track, 
And slew him at Cornassack — 

Small your blame, 
. Sons of Wattin I 
Sing the vengeance of the Welshmen of Tirawley. 

Said the Lynott, "The day of my vengeance is draw 

ing near, 
The day for which, through many a long dark year, 
I have toiled through grief and sin — 
Call ye now the Brehons in, 
And let the plea begin 

Over the bier 

Of Mac William, 
For an eric upon the Barretts of Tirawlsv." 



102 



Then the Brehons to Mac William Burk decreed 
An eric upon Clan Barrett for the deed ; 
And the Lynott's share of the fine, 
As foster-father, was nine 
Ploughlands and nine score kine ; 

But no need 

Had the Lynott, 
Neither care, for land or cattle in Tirawley. 

But rising, while all sat silent on the spot, 

He said, ' ' The law says — doth it not ? — 

If the foster-sire elect 

His portion to reject, 

He may then the right exact 

To applot 

The short eric." 
" 'Tis the law," repiied the Brehons of Tirawley. 



Said the Lynott, " I once hefore had a choice 

Proposed me, wherein law had little voice ; 

But now I choose, and say, 

As lawfully I may, 

I applot the mulct to-day ; 

So rejoice 

In your ploughlands 
And your cattle which I renounce throughout Tirawiej 

" And thus I applot the mulct : I divide 

The land throughout Clan Barrett on every side 

Equally, that no place 

May be without the face 

Of a foe of Wattin's race — 

That the pride 

Of the Barretts 
May be humbled hence for ever throughout Tirawley. 

■« I adjudge a seat in every Barrett's hall 

To Mac William : in every stable I give a stall 



IRISH BALLADS. lt& 

To Mac William : and, beside, 
Whenever a Burk shall ride 
Through Tirawley, I provide 

At his call 

Needful grooming, 
Without charge from any Brughaidh of Tirawley. 

" Thus lawfully I avenge me for the throes 
Ye lawlessly caused me and caused those 
Unhappy shamefaced ones, 
Who, their mothers expected once, 
Would have been the sires .of sons — 

O'er whose woes 

Often weeping, 
I have groaned in my exile from Tirawley. 

" I demand not of you your manhoods; but I take — 
For the Burks will take it — your Freedom 1 foi the 

sake 
Of which all manhood's given 
And all good under heaven, 
And, without which, better even 

Ye should make 

Yourselves barren, 
Than see your children slaves throughout Tirawley ! 

" Neither take I your eyesight from you ; as you took 

Mine and ours : I would have you daily look 

On one another's eyes, 

When the strangers tyrannize 

By your hearths, and blushes arise. 

That ye brook 

Without vengeance 
The insults of troops of Tibbots throughout Tirawley J 

•* The vengeance I designed, now is done. 
And the days of me and mine nearly ru.i — 
For, for this, I have broken faith, 
Teaching him who lies beneath 



Ifi4 book o; 

This pall, to merit death ; 

And my son 

To his father 
Stands pledged for other teaching in Tirawley." 

Said Mac William — "Father and son, hang thajB 

higli !" 
And the Lynott they hanged speedily ; 
But across the salt-sea water, 
To Scotland with the daughter 
Of Mac William — well you got her ! — 

Did you fly, 

Edmund Lindsay, 
The gentlest of all the Welshmen of Tirawley J 

'Tis thus the ancient Ollaves of Erin tell 

How, through lewdness and revenge, it befei 

That the sons of William Conquer 

Came over the sons of Wattin, 

Throughout all the bounds and borders 

Of the land of Auley Mac Fiachra ; 

Till the Saxon Oliver Cromwell 

And his valiant, Bible-guided, 

Free heretics of Clan London 

Coming in, in their succession, 

Rooted out both Burk and Barrett. 

And in their empty places 

New stems of freedom planted, 

With many a goodly sapling 

Of manliness and virtue ; 

Which while their children cluwwh. 

Kindly Irish of the Irish, 

Neither Saxons nor ItalLms, 

May the mighty God of Free>lu% 

Speed them wJu . 

Never taking 
Further vengeance on his people of 'Alraw?®^ < 



I«lbU BAl,LAI>iJ. 163 



THE OUTLAW OF LOCH LENE. 



BY J. J. CALLANAN. 



O many a day have I made good ale in tlie glen, 

That came not of stream, or malt ; — like the brewing of 

men. 
My bed was the ground ; my roof, the greenwood above, 
And the wealth that I sought one far kind glance from 

my love. 



Alas ! on that night when the horses I drove from the 

field. 
That I was not near from terror my angel to shield. - 
She stretched forth her arms, — her mantle she flung to 

the wind, 
And swam o'er Loch Lene, her outlawed lover to find. 

would that a freezing sleet-wing'd tempest did sweep, 
And I and my love were alone, far off on the deep ; 
I'd ask not a ship, or a bark, or pinnace, to save, — 
With her hand round my waist, I'd fear not the wind or 
the wave. 



'Tis down by the lake where the wild tree fringes its 

sides, 
The maid of my heart, my fair one of Heaven resides ;— . 
I think as at eve she wanders its mazes ;iiong, 
The birds go to sleep by the sweet wild twist of baa' 

song. 



166 



AILEEN THE HUNTRESS. 



BY EDWARD WALSH. 

[The Incident related in the following ballad happened about the 
year 1781. Aileen, or Ellen, was daughter of M'Cartie, of Clidane, an 
estate originally bestowed upon this respectable branch of the family 
of M'Cartie More, by James, the seventh Earl of Desmond, and which, 
passing safe through the confiscations of Elizabeth. Cromwell, and 
William, remained in their possession until the beginning of the 
present century. Aileen, who is celebrated in the traditions of the 
people for her love of hunting, was the wife of James O'Connor, of 
Cluain-Tairbh, grandson of David, the founder of the Siol-t Da, a well- 
known sept at tliis day in Kerry. This I 'avid was grandson to Thomas 
UacTeige O'Connor, of Ahalahanna, head of the second house of 
O'Connor Kerry, who, forfeiting in 1666, escaped destruction by taking 
shelter among his relations, the Nagles of Monanimy.] 

Fair Aileen M'Cartie, O'Connor's young bride, 
Forsakes her white pillow with matronly pride, 
And calls forth her maidens (their number was nine) 
To the bawn of her mansion, a-milking the kine. 

They came at her bidding, in kirtle and gown, 
And braided hair, jetty, and golden, and brown, 
And form like the palm-tree, and step like the fawn, 
And bloom like the wild rose that circled the bawn. 

As the Guebre's round tower o'er the fane of Ardfert — 
As the white hind of Brandon by young roes begirt — 
As the moon in her glory 'mid bright stars outhung — 
Stood Aileen M'Cartie her maidens among. 

Beneath the rich kerchief, which matrons may wear, 
Stray'd ringleted tresses of beautiful hair ; 
They wav'd on her fair neck, as darkly as though 
*"Twere the raven's wing shining o'er Mangerton's snow I 

A circlet of pearls o'er her white bosom lay, 

Erst worn by thy proud Queen, O'Connor the gay,* 

» O'Coi nor, sumamed " Sugach," or the Gay, was a celebrate* G4&4 
elsisin race, who nourished in t.he fifteenth century. 



IRISH BAi,LAl>8. HS1 

And now to the beautiful Aileen come down, 
The rarest that ever shed light in the Laune.* 

The many -f 'ring' 'd falluinn\ that floated behind, 
Gave its hues to the sun-light, its folds to the wind — 
The brooch that refrain'd it some forefather bold 
Had torn from a sea-king in hattle-lield old ! 

Around her went bounding two wolf-dogs of speed, 
So tall in their stature, so pure in their breed ; 
While the maidens awake to the new -milk's soft fall 
A song of O'Connor in Carraig's proud hall. 

As the milk came outpouring, and the song came out- 
sung, 
O'er the wall 'mid the maidens a red-deer out-sprung — 
Then cheer'd the fair lady — then rush'd the mad hound- 
And away with the wild stag in air-lifted bound 1 

The gem-fasten'dycr lluinn is dash'd on the bawn — 
One spring o'er the tall fence — and Aileen is gone I 
But morning's rous'd echoes to the deep dells proclaim 
The course of that wild stag, the dogs, and the dame ! 

By Cluain Tairbh's green border, o'er moorland and 

height, 
The red-deer shapes downward the rush of his flight — 
In sunlight his antlers all gloriously flash, 
And onward the wolf-dogs and fair huntress dash! 

By Sliabh-Mis now winding, (rare hunting I ween!) 
He gains the dark valley of Scota the queen J 

* The river Latme flows from the Lakes of Killarney, and the cele 
brated Kerry Pearls are found in its waters. 

t " I-'ulluinn" — The Irish mantle. 

j The first battle fought between the Milesians and the Tuatha de 
Danans for the empire of Ireland was at Sliabh-Mis, in Kerry, in which 
Scoia, an Egyptian princess, and the relict of Milesius, was slain. A 
valley on the north side of Sliabh-Mis, called Glean Scoithin, or the va!.« 
of Scota, is said to be the place of her interment. I he ancient euro 
nicies assart that this battle was fought 1300 years before the Christian 



Who foiled in its bosom a cairn-lifted grave, 
When Sliabh-Mis first fiow'd with the blood of the 
braye ! 

By Coill-Cuaigh's* green shelter, the hollow rooks 

ring — 
Coill-Cuaigh, of the cuckoo's first song in the spring, 
Coill-Cuaigh of the tall oak and gale-scenting spray — 
God's curse on the tyrants that wrought thy decay ! 

Now Maing's lovely border is gloriously won, 
Now the towers of the islandf gleam bright in the sun, 
And now Ceall-an Amanach'sJ portals are pass'd, 
Where headless the Desmond found refuge at last ! 

By Ard-na gcreach§ mountain, and Avonmore's head, 
To the Earl's proud pavilion the panting deer fled — 
Where Desmond's tall clansmen spread banners of pride, 
And rush'd to the battle, und gloriously died ! 

The huntress is coming, slow, breathless, and pale, 
Her raven locks streaming all wild in the gale ; 
She stops — and the breezes bring balm to her brow — 
But wolf-dog and wild deer, oh 1 where are they now ? 

On Beidhlan-Tigh-an-Earla, by Avonmore's well, 
His bounding heart broken, the hunted deer fell, 

* " Coill-Cuaigh"— The Wood of the Cuckoo, so called from being the 
favourite haunt of the bird of summer, is now a bleak desolate moor. 
The axe of the stranger laid its honors low. 

t " Castle Island" or the " Island of Kerry" — The stronghold of tho 
Fitzgeralds. 

X It was in this churchyard that the headless remains of the un- 
fortunate Gerald, the 16th Karl of Desmond, were prjvately interred. 
The head was carefully pickled, and sent over to the English queen, 
who ha<f it f,xet on London-bridge. 'Itiis mighty chieftain possessed 
more than 570,()U0 acres of land, and had a train of SOU gentlemen of 
his own name and race. At the source of the Blackwater, where he 
Bought refuge from his inexorable foes, is a mountain called '• Keidhlan 
Tigh-an-Earla," or " The Plain of the Kails House." He was slain 
near Castle Island on 11th November, 1583. 

i " Ard-na gcreach" — The height of the spoils or armies. 



IRISH BALLADS, 169 

And o'er him the brave hounds all gallantly died. 
In death still victorious — their fangs in his side ! 

'Tis evening — the breezes beat cold on her breast, 

And Aileen must seek her far home in the west ; 

Yet weeping, she lingers where the mist-wreathes *n 

chill, 
O'er the red-deer and tall dogs that lie on the hill 1 

Whose harp at the banquet told distant and wide, 
This feat of fair Aileen, O'Connor's young bride ? 
O'Daly's — whose guerdon tradition hath told, 
Was a purple-crown'd wine-cup of beautiful gold I 



SHANE DYMAS' DAUGHTER. 

It was the eve of hcly St. Bride, 
The Abbey bell3 were ringing, 

And the meek-eyed nuns at eventide 
The vesper hymns were singing. 

Alone, by the well of good St. Bride, 

A novice fair was kneeling ; 
And there seem'd not o'er her soul to gild* 

One " shade of earthly feeling." 

For ne'er did that clear and sainted well 
Reflect, from its crystal water, 

A form more fair than the shadow that fell 
From O'Niall's lovely daughter. 

Her eye was bright as the blue concave, 

And beaming with devotion ; 
Her bosom fair as the foam on the wave 

Of Erin's rolling ocean. 



*70 BOOK OP 

Tet O ! forgive her that starting tear j 

From home and kindred riveD, 
Fair Kathleen, many a long, long year, 

Must be the Bride of Heaven. 

Her beads were told, and the moonlight shout 

Sweetly on Callan Water, 
When her path was cross'd by a holy nun ; — 

" Benedicite, fair daughter I" 

Fair Kathleen started — well did she know — 

O what will not love discover ! 
Her country's scourge, and her father's foe,— 

'Twas the voice of her Saxon lover. 

" Raymond 1" — " Oh hush, my Kathleen dear, 

My path's beset with danger ; 
But cast not, love, those looks of fear 
Upon thy dark-hair'd stranger. 

" My red roan steed's in yon Culdee grove, 

My bark is out at sea, love I 
My boat is moored in the ocean cove ; 

Then haste away with me, love ! 

" My father has sworn my hand shall be 

To Sidney's daughter given ; 
And thine, to-morrow, will offer thee 

A sacrifice to heaven. 

" But away, my love, away with me I 

The breeze to the west is blowing ; 
And thither, across the dark-blue sea, 

Are England's bravest going.* 

" To a land wh.?ro the breeze from t!ie orange bowtw 
Comes over the exile's sorrow, 

• AlteUsc to the settlement of Virginia, by Sir Walter Raleigh, 



IRISH BALLADS. 171 

like the light- wing'd dreams of his early hours, 
Or his hope of a happier morrow. 

" And there, in some valley's loneliness, 

By wood and mountain shaded, 
We'll live in the light of wedded bliss, 

Till the lamp of life be faded. 

" Then thither with me, my Kathleen, fly I 

The storms of life we'll weather, 
Till in bliss beneath the western sky, 

We live, love, die together!" — 

" Die, Saxon, now !" — At that fiend-like yell 

An hundred swords are gleaming : 
Down the bubbling stream, from the tainted well. 

His heart's best blood is streaming. 

In vain does he doff the hood so white, 

And vain his falchion flashing : 
Five murderous brands through his corslet bright 

Within his heart are clashing I 

His last groan echoing through the grove, 

His life blood on the water, 
He dies, — thy first and thy only love, 

O'Niall's hapless daughter ! 

Vain, vain, was the shield of that breast of snow J 

In vain that eye beseech'd them ; 
Through his Kathleen's heart, the murderous blow 

Too deadly aimed, has reach'd him. 

The spirit fled with the red red blood 

Fast gushing from her Dosom ; 
The blast of death has blighted the bud 

Of Erin's loveliest blossom I 



*72 book or 

*Tis morn ; — in the deepest doubt and dread 

The gloomy hours are rolling ; 
No sound save the requiem for the dead, 

Or knell of the death-beil tolling. 

Tis dead of night — not a sound is heard, 
Save from the night wind sighing ; 

Or the mournful moan of the midnight bird, 
To yon pale planet crying. 

Who names the name of his murder'd child ? 

What spears to the moon are glancing ? 
'Tis the vengeful cry of Shane Dymas wild,* 

His bonnacht-men advancing. 

Saw ye that cloud o'er the moonlight cast, 
Fire from its blackness breaking ? 

Heard ye that cry on the midnight blast, 
The voice of terror shrieking ? 

'Tis the fire from Ardsaillach'sf willow'd height. 

Tower and temple falling ; 
'Tis the groan of death, and the cry of fright, 

From monks for mercy calling J 

• For an account of thli fierce but high-aouled chieftain, tee Steffi 
Historical Memoirs of the city of Armagh, 
t " The Height of Willows, " the ancient name of Armagh. 



IRISH BALLADS. 173 

THE LAST O'SULLIVAN BEARE. 

BY THOMAS d'ARCY M'GEE. 

[Philip O'Sullivan Beare, a brave captain, and the author of many 
works relating to Ireland, commanded a ship-of-war for Philip IV. of 
Spain. In hi3 " Catholic History," published at Lisbon in 1609, he ha* 
preserved the sad story of his family. It is in brief thus: — In 1602 his 
father's castle of l'unbuidhe, being demolished by cannonade, his 
family — consisting of a wife, son, and two daughters— emigrated to 
Spain, where his youngest brother, Donald, joined him professionally, 
but was soon after killed in an engagement with the Turks. The old 
chief, at the age of one hundred, died at Corunna, and was soon fol- 
lowed by his long-wedded wife. One daughter entered a convent and 
took the veil ; the other, returning to Ireland, was lost at sea. In this 
version the real names have been preserved.] 

All alone — all alone, where the gladsome vine is grow- 
ing — 

All alone by the bank of the Tagus darkly flowing, 

No morning brings a hope for him, nor any evening 
cheer, 

To O'Sullivan Beare thro' the seasons of the year. 

He is thinking — ever tliinking of the hour he left Dun- 

buidhe, 
His father's staff fell from his hand, his mother wept 

wildly ; 
His brave young brother hid his face, his lovely sisters 

twain, 
How they wrung their maiden hands to see him sail away 

for Spain. 

They were Helen bright and Norah staid, who in their 

father's hall, 
Like sun and shadow, frolicked round the grave armorial 

wall ; 
In Compostella's cloisters he found many a pictured 

saint, 
But the Spirits boyhood canonised no human hand can 

paint. 

All alone — all alone, where the gladsome vine is grow 

ing— 
All alone by the bank of the Tagus darkly flowing—* 



174 BOOK OF 

No morning brings a hope for him, nor any 

cheer, 
To O'Sullivan Beare thro* the seasons of the year. 

Oh I sure he ought to take a ship and sail back to Dun- 

buidhe — 
He ought to sail back, back again to that castle o'er the 

sea; 
His father, mother, brother, his lovely sisters twain, 
Tis they would raise the roof with joy to see him 

back from Spain. 

Hush ! hush ! I cannot tell it — the tale will make me 

wild — 
He left it, that grey castle, in age almost a child ; 
Seven long years with Saint J ames's Friars he conned 

the page of might — 
Seven long years for his father's roof was sighing every 

night. 

Then came a caravel from the north, deep freighted, 

full of wo, 
His houseless family it held, their castle it lay low, 
Saint Jaiiies's shrine, thro' ages famed as pilgrim haunt 

of yore, 
Saw never wanderers so wronged upon its scalloped 

shore. 

Yet it was sweet — their first grief past — to watch thosa 

two fond girls 
Sit by the sea, as mermaiden hold watch o'er hiddea 

pearls — 
To see them sit and try to sing for that sire and mothef 

old 
O'er whose heads five score winters their tl ickening 

snows had rolled. 

to hear them sing and pray in song for them in deadly 

work, 
Their gallant brothers battling for Spain against th» 

Turk— 



IRISH BALLADS. 171 

Corunna's port at length they reach, and seaward ever 

stare, 
Wondering what belates the ship their brothers home 

should bear. 

Joy ! joy ! — it conies — their Philip lives ! — ah ! Donald 
is no more ; 

Like half a hope one son kneels down the exiled two be- 
fore; 

They spoke no requiem for the dead, nor blessing for the 
living ; 

The tearless heart of parentage has broken with its 
grieving. 

Two pillars of a ruined pile — two old trees of the land — 
Two voyagers on a sea of grief, long suff 'rers hand in 

hand. 
Thus at the woful tidings told left life and all its tears, 
So died the wife of many a spring, the chief of an hun- 
dred years. 

One sister is a black veiled nun of Saint Ursula, in 

Spain, 
And one sleeps coldly far beneath the troubled Irish 

main ; 
Tis Helen bright who ventured to the arms of her true 

lover, 
But Cleena's* stormy waves now roll the radiant girl 

over. 

All alone — all alone, where the gladsome vine is grow- 
ing — 

All alone by the bank of the Tagus darkly flowing, 

No morning brings a hope for him, nor any evening 
cheer, 

To O'Sullivan Beare thro' the seasons of the year. 

• The wave* off the coast of Cork, so called. 



176 



THE ROBBER OF EERNEY. 



The robber in his rocky hold from dawn of morning lay, 
And wearily and drearily the noontide passed away— 
The sun went down, and darkness fell in silence on the 

earth ; 
And now from out their wild retreat the robber band 

came forth. 

That night by many a castle old, and many a haunted 

glen, 
Mac Mahon and his outlaws rode, all wild and ruthless 

men; 
Before them Lath-an-albany in midnight beauty lay — 
Ah 1 woe is me ! from all its fields the robber swept his 

prey. 

*jid thus the country far and near, Mac Mahon held in 

awe, 
And through this ancient barony, the robber's word was 

law; 
In castle hsll it chilled the sound of revelry and mirth, 
But it lighted up with gladness still the lonely widow's 

hearth. 

The robber bold, within his hold, from dawn of morning 

lies, 
And gazes on the sinking sun with weary heart and 

eyes; 
Till through the dark and starless night, by tower and 

ruin gray, 
And far from all his faithful band he held his lonely 

way. 

Alone among his enemies the outlawed chieftain stood, 
With haughty eye, and fearless heart, and broadsword 

keen and good ; 
But his wild career is over, the castles of the land 
Henceforth will need nor watch nor ward against th« 

outlaw's band. 



IRISH BALLADS. lf7 

And now upon. his homeward track, with heavy heart he 

goes- 
No more in wild and midnight raid to hurst upon hia 

foes; 
No more to lead his faithful band through Ferney's v&l. 

leys old, 
No more within his mountain lair, carousal brave to 

hold. 

Alas ! alas ! the light that guides both horse and rider en, 

From many a kindling roof-tree burst, and many a dy- 
ing groan ; 

And many an agonizing shriek rings-through the lurid 
air, 

Oh 1 fearful is the carnage wrought within the robber's 
lair. 



There's silence in the castle where the last Mac Mahon 

lies, 
His heart is dull, the light of life has faded from his 

eyes ; 
But who can tell what dreams of woe — what visions of 

the dead — 
What fond and broken-hearted forms surround the out 

law's bed ? 

Or who can tell what influence such blessed dreamt 
impart, 

Or why they still come thronging round the dying sin- 
ner's heart? — 

Whate'er they be, the simple faith is rational and good 

They come in that last hour to lead the wandering rAU 
to God. 



O'DONOGHUE'S BRIDE. 

A maiden dwelt, old legends say, 
Beside Loch Lene's mysterious waters, 

And eye more bright, and heart more gftj 7 , 
Ne'er boasted earth's most gifted daughter 

But shadows o'er her spirit came, 
Vague fancies fed the mind within ; 

And love sprung up with fatal flame, 

Where all things pure and good had been. 

Alas ! 'twere painful sight to see 
Upon the shore of that sweet lake, 

The maiden gazing wistfully 
Upon the billows as they break. 

So clearly pure, and purely bright, 
The first May-morn before her eyes, 

With strange wild looks of love and light 
Waiting until her chief would rise. 

Up from the waves he comes to her, 
O'Donoghue the brave, the gay, 

So soon to be her worshipper, 
And bear her as his bride away. 

Why comes he not ? ah ! can he prove 
Faithless ? or does the maid but rave t 

What could inspire this mystic love ? — 
She springs into the yielding wave. 

Down to the palace, deep beneath 

The clear blue lake, the maid is gone, 

And the princely chief with a golden 
Will place his bride on a royal throna. 



IRISH BALLADS. 17S 



THE VIRGIN MARY'S BANK. 

BY J. J. CALLANAN. 

[From the foot of Inchidony Island, an elevated tract of sand runs 
ttt into the sea, and terminates in a high preen bank, which forms a 
pleasing entrust with the little desert behind it, and the black solitary 
rock immediately under. Tradition tells that the Virgin came one 
Bight to this hillock to pray, and was discovered kneeling there by the 
crew of a vessel that was coming to anchor near the place. They 
laughed at her piety, and made some merry and unbecoming remarks 
on her beauty, jipon which a storm arose and destroyed the ship and 
her crew. Since that time no vessel has been known to anchor near 
the spot 3 

The evening star rose beauteous above the fading day, 
As to tli e lone and silent beach the Virgin came to pray, 
And hill and wave shone brightly in the moonlight's 

mellow fall ; 
But the bank of green where Mary knelt was brightest 

of them all. 

Slow moving o'er the waters, a gallant bark appear'd, 
And her joyous crew look'd from *hedeck as to the lane. 

she near'd ; 
To the calm and shelter'd haven ebe floated like a swan, 
And her wings of snow o'er the waves below in pride 

and beauty shone. 

The master saw our Lady as he stood upon the prow, 
And mark'd the whiteness of her robe and the radiance 

of her brow ; 
Her arms were folded gracefully upon her stainless 

breast, 
And her eyes look'd up among the stars to Him her soul 

lo^'d best. 

He show'd her to his sailors, and he hail'd her with a 

cheer, 
And. on the kneeling Virgin they gazed with laugh and 

jeer; 



180 book or 

And madly swore, a form so fair they never saw before ; 
And they curs'd the faint and lagging breeze that kept 
them from the shore. 

The ocean from its bosom 6hook off the moonlight 

sheen, 
And up its wrathful billows rose to vindicate their 

Queen ; 
And a cloud came o'er the heavens, and a darkness o'er 

the land, 
And the scoffing crew beheld no more that Lady on the 

strand. 

Out burst the pealing thunder, and the light'ning leap'd 

about ; 
And rushing with his watery war, the tempest gave a 

shout ; 
And that vessel from a mountain wave came down with 

thund'ring shock; 
And her timbers flew like scatter'd spray on Inchidony's 

rock. 

Then loud from all that guilty crew one shriek rose wild 

and high ; 
But the angry surge swept over them, and hush'd their 

gurgling cry ; 
And with a hoarse exulting tone the tempest pass'd 

away, 
And down, still chafing from their strife, th' indignant 

waters lay. 

When the calm and purple morning shone out on high 

Dunmore, 
Full many a mangled corpse was seen on Inchidony's 

shore ; 
And to this day the fisherman shows where the scoffers 

sank: 
And still he calls that hillock green, " the Virgin Mary 'a 

bank." 



BALLADS OF THE AFFECTIONS. 



THE PARTING FROM SLEMISH; OR, THE 
CON'S FLIGHT TO TYRONE. 



BT SAMUEL FETtGUSON, M.R.I. A. 

[In Blackwood's Magazine, vol 34, there is a long and interesting 
story by Mr. Ferguson, entitled The Return of Claneboy. The events 
in the narrative are placed in the summer of 1333; and the hero of 
the tale is O'Neill, *' the youngest of the Princes of Claneboy." The 
scene Is 'aid, principally, in the county Antrim; and this ballad is sup- 
posed 10 Lave been sung in the tent of O'Neill, on Slemish, near Bally- 
mena, on the first night after he had crossed the Bann, the boundary 
of the British Pale. The person supposed to sing is " Turiough," th« 
Prince's harper.] 

My Owen Bawn's hair is of thread of gold spun ; 
Of gold in the shadow, of light in the sun ; 
All curled in a coolun the bright tresses are — 
They make his head radiant with beams like a star I 

My Owen Bawn's mantle is long and is wide, 
To wrap me up safe from the storm by his side ; 
And I'd rather face snow-drift and winter- wind there, 
Than he among daisies and sunshme elsewhere. 

^t My Owen Bawn Con is a hunter of deer, 

He tracks the dun quarry with arrow and spear — 
Where wild woods are waving, and deep waters flow, 
Ah, there goes my love, with the dun-dappled roe. 



My Owen Bawn Con is a bold fisherman, 
He spears the strong salmon in midst of the Bann ; 
And rock'd in the tempest on stormy Lough Neagh, 
Draws up the red trout through the bursting of spray. 

My Owen Bawn Con is a bard of the best, 

He wakes me with singing, he sings me to rest ; 

And the cruit 'neath his fingers rings up with a sound. 

As though angels harp'd o'er us, and fays underground 

They tell me the stranger has given command, 
That crommeal and coolun shall cease in the land, 
That all our youth's tresses of yellow be shorn, 
And bonnets, instead, of a new fashion, worn ; 

That mantles like Owen Bawn's shield us no more, 
That hunting and fishing henceforth we give o'er, 
That the net and the arrow aside must be laid, 
For hammer and trowel, and mattock and spade ; 

That the echoes of music must sleep in their caves, 
That the slave must forget his own tongue for a slave's, 
That the sounds of our lips must be strange in our ears, 
And our bleeding hands toil in the dew of our tears. 

Oh sweetheart and comfort ! with thee by my side, 
I could love and live happy, whatever betide ; 
But thou, in such bondage, wouldst die ere a day — 
Away to Tir-oen, then, Owen, away ! 

There are wild woods and mountains, and streams deep 

and clear, 
There are loughs in Tir-oen as lcvely as here ; 
There are silver harps ringing in Yellow Hugh's hall, 
&.nd a bower by the forest side, sweetest of all ! 

We will dwell by the sunshiny skirts of the brake, 
Where the sycamore shadows glow deep iu the lake ; 
And the snowy swan stirring the green shadows them, 
AfloiU on the water, seems floating in air. 



IRISH BALLADS. 183 

Farewell, then, black Slemish, green Collon adieu, 
My heart is a-breaking at thinking of you ; 
But tarry we dare not, when freedom hath gone — 
Away to Tir-oen, then, Owen Bawn Con 1 

Away to Tir-oen, then, Owen away ! 
We will leave them the dust from our feet for a prey, 
And our dwelling in ashes and flames for a spoil — 
Twill be long ere they quench them with stream* ot 
the Foyle ! 



AILLEEN. 



BY JOHN BANIM. 



'Tis not for love of gold I go, 

'Tis not for love of fame ; 
Tho' fortune should her smile bestow, 

And I may win a name, 

Ailleen, 

And I may win a name. 

And yet it is for gold I go, 

And yet it is for fame, 
That they may deck another brow, 

And bless another name, 

Ailleen, 

And bless another name. 

For this, but this, I go— for this 

I lose thy love awhile ; 
And all the soft and quiet bliM 

Of thy young, faithful smile, 

AillMO, 

Of thy young, faithful smile. 



l&i 



And I go to brave a world I hat©. 

And woo it o'er and o'er, 
And tempt a wave, and try a fate 

Upon a stranger shore, 

Ailleen, 

Upon a stranger shore. 

Oh ! when the bays are all my own, 

I know a heart will care ! 
Oh ! when the gold is wooed and won, 

I know a brow shall wear, 

Ailleen, 

I know a brow shall wear 1 

And when with both returned again. 

My native land to see, 
I know a smile will meet me there, 

And a hand will welcome me, 

Ailleen, 

And a hand will welcome me 1 



EMAN-AC-KNUCK TO EVA.* 

BY J. B. CLARKE. 

On the white hawthorn's bloom, in purpling streak, 
I see the fairy-ring of morning break, 
On the green valley's brow she golden glows, 
Kissing the crimson of the opening rose, — 
Knits with her thousand smiles its damask dyes, 
And laughs the season on our hearts and eyes. 
Bise, Eva, rise 1 fair spirit of my breast, 
In whom I live, forsake the down of rest ; 



• Eman-ac-Knuck, or Ned of the Hill, a celebrated 
Veebooter, who has been made the hero of a romance by Mm. Peck, 
this poem is addressed to his wife. 



IRISH BALLADS. 185 

Lovelier than morn, carnationed in soft hiiCE, 
Sweeter than rifled roses in the dews 
Of dawn divinely weeping — and more fair 
Than the coy flowers fann'd by mountain air; 
More modest than the morning's blushing smile. 
Rise, Eva, rise ! pride of our Western Isle — 
The sky's blue beauties lose their sunny grace 
Before the calm, soft splendours of thy face ; 
Thy breath is sweeter than the apple bloom, 
When spring's mnsk'd spirit bathes it in perfume; 
The rook's wild honey steeps thy rubied lip — 
Rise, Eva, rise ! — I long these sweets to sip. 
The polish'd ringlets of thy jetty locks 
Shame the black ravens on their sun-gilt rocks ; 
Thy neck can boast a whiter, lovelier glow, 
Than the wild cygnet's silvery plume of snow. 
And from thy bosom, the soft throne of bliss, 
The witch of love, in all her blessedness, 
Heaves all her spells, wings all her feather'd dart®, 
And dips her arrows in adoring hearts. 
Rise, Eva, rise ! the sun sheds his sweet ray, 
Ain'rous to kiss thee — rise, my love ! we'll stray- 
Across the mountain, — on the blossomy heath, 
The heath-bloom holds for thee its odorous breath; 
From the tall crag, aspiring to the skies, 
1 '11 pick for thee the strings of strawberries ; 
The yellow nuts, too, from the hazel tree — 
Soul of my heart ! — I'll strip to give to thee : 
As thy red lips the berries shall be bright, 
And the sweet nuts shall be as ripe and white 
And milky as the love-begotten tide 
That fills thy spotless bosom, my sweet bride ! 
Queen of the smile of joy ! shall I not kiss 
Thee in the moss-grown cot, bless'd bower of blia. - 
Shall not thy rapturous lover clasp thy charms, 
And fold his Eva in his longing arms — 
Shall Inniscather's wood again attest 
Thy beauties strain'd unto this burning breast? 
Absent how long ! Ah ! when wilt thou return ? 
When shall this wither'd bosom ,jase to mourn? 



186 BOOK OF 

£v> i why Btay so long? why leave me Ions, 
In tne aeep valley, to the cold gray stone 
Pouring my plaints ? O come, divinest fair! 
Chase from my breast the demon of despair. 
The winds are witness to my deep distress, 
Like the lone wanderer of the wilderness, 
For thee I languish and for thee I sigh — 
My Eva, come, or thy poor swain shall die! 
And didst thou hear my melancholy lay ? 
And art thou coming, love ? My Eva ! say ? 
Thou daughter of a meek-eyed dame, thy face 
Is lovelier than thy mother's, in soft grace. 
O yes ! thou comest, Eva ! to my sight 
An angel minister of heavenly light: — 
The sons of frozen climes can never see 
Summer's bright smile so glad as .1 see thee: 
Thy steps to me are lovelier than the ray 
That ro^es night's cheek with the blush of &a,g 3 



D*DONNELL AND THE FAIR FITZGERALD, 

BY CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 



A fawn that flies with sudden spring, 
A wild-bird fluttering on the wing, 
A passing gleam of April sun, 
She flashed upon me, and was gone ! 
No chance did that dear face restore, 
Nor then — nor now — nor evermore. 
But sure, I see her in my dreams, 
With eyes where bve's first dawning 
And tones, like Irish music, say — 
" You ask to love me, and you may;' 
And so I know she will be mine, 
That rose ",i princely Geraldine. 



IRISH BALLADS. IS? 

A voice that thrills with modest doubt, 
A tale of love can ill pour out ; 
But, oh ! when love wore manly guise, 
And warrior feats woke woman's sighs— 
With Irish sword, on Irish soil, 
I might have won that kingly spoil. 
But then, perchance, the Desmond race 
Had deemed to mate with mine disgrace; 
For mine's that strain of native blood 
That last the Norman lance withstood ; 
And still when mountain war was waged 
Their sparths among the Normans raged . 
And burst through many a serried line 
Of Lacy, Burke, and Geraldine. 



And yet methinks in battle press, 
My love, I could not love you less ; 
For, oh ! 'twere sweet brave deeds to do 
For our old, sainted land, and you ! 
To sweep, a storm, through Barrensmore, 
With Doc.wra's scattered ranks before 
Like chaff upon our northern blast ; 
Nor rest till Bann's broad waves are passed. 
Till Inbhar sees our flashing line, 
Till Darha's lordly towers are mine. 
And backward borne, as seal and sign, 
The fairest maid of Geraldine. 



But, Holy Bride,* how sweeter still 
A hunted chief on Faughart hill, 
With all the raging Pale behind, 
So sweet, so strange a foe to find J 
Soft love to plant where terror sprung, 
With honey speech of Irish tongue ; 
Again to dare Clan-Geralt's swords 
For hope of some sweet, stolen words. 



St. Bride, or Brijtfd. 



196 boos of 

Till many a danger passed and gone, 
My suit has sped, my Bride is won — 
Slip's proud Clan-Connell's Queen, and mine 
Young Geraldine, of Geraldine. 

But sure that time is dead and gone 
When worth alone such love had won, 
For hearts are cold, and hands are bought, 
And faith, and lore, and love are nought ? 
Ah, trust me, no ! The pure and true 
The genial past may still renew ; 
Still love as then ; and still no less 
Strong hearts shall snatch a brave success, 
And to their end right onward go, 
As Erna's tide to Assaroe.* 
Oh ! Saints may strive for Martyr's crown, 
And warriors watch by leagured town, 
But poor is all their toil to mine, 
Till won's my Bride — my Geraldine ! 



2Irj Chuil-Thjonn-t 

TBiHSLATEP FEOH THE IRISH. 
BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.Z.A. 

Oh, had you seen the Coolsn, 

Walking down by the cuckoo's, street,} 

With the dew of the meadows shining 
On her milk-white twinkling feet. 

• A waterfall in Tyrconnell, the O'Pcnnell's county. 

\ The Coolun. the Maiden of fair flowing Locks. — See another bal- 
lad with this name, page l'J9. 

X 'this word is incorrectly and unintelligibly printed in the origin** 
I am helped, I believe, to the proper word by the following passage in 
Mr. Ferguson's first article on Hardiman's Minstrelsy ( University Maga- 
zine, vol iii. 477. ) " The bagpipes are drawing their last breath from a 
f6w consumptive longs, and trench horns have been heard in 'the street 
Dtf the cuckoos. ' " 



IRISH BALLADS. ' u 9 

Ob, my love she is, and my coleen oge, 
And she dwells in Bal'nagar ; 

And she hears the palm of beauty bright 
From the fairest that in Erin are. 

In Bal'nagar is the Coolun, 

Like the berry on the bough her cheek ; 
Bright beauty dwells for ever 

On her fair neck and ringlets sleek : 
Oh, sweeter is her mouth's soft music 

Than the lark or thrush at dawn, 
Or the blackbird in the greenwood singing 

Farewell to the setting sun. 

Rise up, my boy ! make ready 

My horse, for I forth would ride, 
To follow the modest damsel, 

Where she walks on the green hill side s 
For e'er since our youth were we plighted, 

In faith, troth, and wedlock true — 
Oh, she's sweeter to me nine times over, 

Than organ or cuckoo ! 

Oh, ever since my childhood 

I loved the fair and darling child, 
But our people came between us, 

And with lucre our pure love denied: 
Oh, my wo it is, and my bitter pain, 

And I weep it night and day, 
That the coleen bawn of my early love 

Is torn from my heart away. 

Sweet-heart and faithful treasure, 

Be constant still, and true ; 
Nor for want of herds and houses 

Leave one who would ne'er leave yOB. 
I'll pledge you the blessed Bible, 

Without and eke within, 
That the faithful God will provide for n&. 

Without thanks to kith or kin. 



190 BOOK o* 

Oh, love, do you remember 

When we lay all night alone, 
Beneath the ash in the winter-storm, 

When the oak wood round did groan ? 
No shelter then from the blast had we, 

The bitter blast or sleet, 
But your gown to wrap about our heada 

And my coat around our feet. 



B]tJ5J'D]ii B4t) 2t)o Scojx.* 

BY EDWARD WALSH. 

[Brighidin ban mo star is in English fair young bride, or Bridget mg 
treasure. The proper sound of this phrase is not easily found by tha 
mere English-speaking Irish. The following is the best help I can af- 
ford them in the case: — " Breedheenbawn-mu sthore." The- proper 
Dame Brighit, or Bride, signifies a fiery dart, and was tho ume of the 
goddess of poetry in the Pagan days of Ireland.] 

I am a wand'ring minstrel man, 

And Lovb my only theme, 
I've stray'd beside the pleasant Bann. 

And eke the Shannon's stream ; 
I've pip'd and play'd to wife and mail 

By Barrow, Suir, and Nore, 
But never met a maiden yet 

Like BltrSJ-DlTJ B411 2t)0 St!0|U 

My girl hath ringlets rich and rare, 

By Nature's fingers wove— » 
Loch-Carra's swan is not so fair 

As is her breast of love ; 
And when she moves, in Sunday sheen, 

Beyond our cottage door, 
I'd scorn the high-born Saxon queen 

#or B\l)5)T>}\) B417 21)0 St;0f»» 

* Brichidin Pan Mo Store. 



IRISH BALLADS. 191 

It is not that thy smile is sweet, 

And soft thy voice of song — 
It is not that thou fleest to meet 

My comings lone and long ; 
But that doth rest beneath thy breast, 

A heart of purest core, 
Whose pulse is known to me alone, 

20o Bjijsjtj B41) 4rco]t. 



THE LAMENTATION OF FELIX MCARTHY. 

IRAK SLATED FROM THE IRISH. 

BY J. J. CALLANAN. 

[Frcm the inquiries we have made (says the author) concerning tna 
tragical circumstance that gave rise to the following effusion, we 
lei a. that Felix il'Carthy had been compelled, during- a period of dis- 
tiUDance and persecution, to fly for safety to a mountainous region in 
the western part of this county (Cork;. He was accompanied in his 
flight by a wife and four children, and found an asylum in a lone and 
secluded glen, where he constructed a rude kind of habitation, as a 
temporaiy residence. One night, during the absence of himself and ltia 
wife, this ill-contrived structure suddenly gave way, and buried the 
four children, who were asleep at the time, in its ruins. What tha 
feelings of the father were will be best learned from the following la- 
mentation.] 

I'll sing my children's death song, tho' 
My voice is faint and low; 
Mine is the heart that's desolate — 
'Tis I will mourn their fate. 

I'll sing their death song, tho' the dart 
Is rankling in my heart : 
No friend is here my pangs to soothe, 
la this deep solitude. 

Weep not the widow's grief to see, 
When wild with agony ! 
Nor mourn to hear the bridegroom rs"S§> 
Above his partner's grave. 



Bat weep for one whose bitter wall. 
Is poured upon the gale, 
Like the shrill bird that flutters nigh 
The nest, where its crushed offspring ]&, 

Yes ! I will sing this song of wo, 
Till life's last spark shall glow. 
Like the swan floating on the surge, 
That murmurs its unwilling dirge. 

Thou Callaghan, devoid of sin — 
And Charles of the silken skin, 
Mary and Anne, my peerless flower, 
Entombed within an hour. 

My four sweet children fair and bravej 
Laid in one grave — 
Wound of my soul, that I should say 
Your death song in one day 1 

Vain was the blood of Eiver's race, 
And every opening grace, 
And youth undarkened by a cloud — 
Against an early shroud ! 

Mute are the tongues that sung for mc^ 
In joyful harmony : — 
Cold are the lips whose welcome kiss 
To me was heavenly bliss. 

Oh ! but for him whose head was bow'd 
'Mid Calvary's mocking crowd — 
Soon would I fly the painful day. 
And follow in their way. 

Yet mourned not He in voiceless gloom, 
O'er Lazarus in the tomb — 
Rushed not the flood from his dirnm'd eyfiSf 
Heav'd not his breast with sighs' 



IRISH BALLADS. IS 

Yes, for his kindred from the day, 
That earthward darkling lay, — 
Then do not chide that I should mourn 
For them that won't return. 

And mourned not the pure Virgin, whec 
Her Son, transfixed by men, 
Writh'd in the throes of his dark agony ? 
Then blame not me. 

At midnight's hour of silence deep, 
Seal'd in their balmy sleep, 
Oh ! crushing grief, — oh ! scathing blow, 
My lov'd ones were laid low. 

Methought, when bow'd this head with time, 
Around me they would twine, 
Nor reck'd that I should mourn their lot, 
A tning of nought. 

'Twas meet to him, affection they shou'd prsWJ 
Who gave them all his love, 
And to old age the night concede, 
Their path to lead. 

Beauty and strength have left mj orow, 
Nor care nor wisdom have I now ; 
Little the blow of death I dread 
Since all my hopes have fled. 

No more — no more shall music's voicQ, 
My heart rejoice — 
Like a brain-stricken fool, whose ear 
Is clos'd 'gainst earthly cheer, 

When wailing at the dead of night, 
They cross my aching sight — 
They come, and beck'ning me awajt, 
They chide my long delay. 



194 



At midnight hour — at morn — at eve, 
My sight they do not leave ; 
Within — abroad — their looks of love, 
Around me move. 

Oh ! in their visits no affection's lost !* 
Hove the pathways hy their shadows croes'd. 
Soon, hy the will of heaven's King, 
To their embrace I'll spring. 

I pity her who never more will know 
Contentment here below : 
Who fed tli em at the fountain of her breast, 
And hush'd their infant rest. 

Her faded eyes, her anguish speak — 
And her clasp'd hands, so weak ! — 
'Tis she, alas ! of Erin's daughters 
Hath seen* the ruin of slaughters.^ 



PASTHEEN FION. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE IKI8H. 

BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I.A. 

[Tn Hardiman's "Trish Minstrelsy," vol. 1, p. 330, there is a pott 
upon the original of Paislheen Fion. The name may be translated 
either fair youth or fair maiden, and the writer supposes it tc have a 
political meaning, and to refer to the son of James 11. Whatever may 
have been the intention of the author, it is, on the surface, an exqui- 
site love song, and as such I have retained it in this class of ballads, 
rather than in the next — Ed.] 

Oh, my fair Pastheen is my heart's delight ; 
Her gay heart laughs in her blue eye bright ; 

• This last expression may appear strange to the English reader, 
bnt it is a literal translation of the original — Authok's Note. 

t This poem is taken from " Bolster s Quarterly Magazine," vol. 1, 
Cork, 1826. It is not included in the collection of Callanan's Poems, 
published in 1829, in London. — " Cusheen T.oo," p. 78, is also taken 
from the same magasine, and is likewise ij ottedfrom the collection. 



IRISH BALLADS. 195 

Like the apple blossom her bosom white, 

And her neck like the swan's on a March morn bright ! 

Then, Oro, come with me 1 come with me ! come 
with me ! 

Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! 

And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet 

If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet ! 

Love of my heart, my fair Pastheen 1 

Her cheeks are as red as the rose's sheen, 

But my lips have tasted no more, I ween, 

Than the glass I drank to the health of my queen ! 

Then, Oro, come with me 1 come with me I come 
with me I 

Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! 

And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet 

If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet J 

Were I in the town, where's mirth and glee, 
Or 'twixt two barrels of barley bree, 
With my fair Pastheen upon my knee, 
'Tis I would drink to her pleasantly I 

Then, Oro, come with me 1 come with me ! coma 
with me 1 

Oro, come with me ! brown girl, sweet ! 

And, oh 1 I would go through snow and sleet 

If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet 1 

Nine nights I lay in longing and pain, 
Betwixt two bushes, beneath the rain, 
Thinking to see you, love, once again ; 
But whistle and call were all in vain 1 

Then, Oro, come with me 1 come with me ! come 
with me ! 

Oro, come with me 1 brown girl, sweet ! 

And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet 

If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet ! 

Ill leave my people, both friend and foe ; 
From all the girls in the world I'll go ; 



96 BOOK OF 

But from you, sweetheart, oh, never ! oh, no ! 
'Till I lie in the cuflin stretched, cold and low ! 

Then, Oro, come with me 1 come with me! com« 
with me ! 

Oro, come with me ! hrown girl, sweet ! 

And, oh ! I would go through snow and sleet 

If you would come with me, my brown girl, sweet 3 



THE PATRIOT'S BRIDE. 

UY CHARLES GAVAN DUKFT. 

Oh ! give me back that royal dream 

My fancy wrought, 
When I have seen your sunny eyes 

Grow moist with thought ; 
And fondly hop'd, dear Love, your heart from mine 

Its spell had caught ; 
And laid me down to dream that dream divino, 

But true methought, 
Of how my life's long task would be, to make yours 
blessed as it ought. 

To learn to love sweet Nature more 

For your sweet sake, 
To watch with you — dear friend, with you! — 

Its wonders break ; 
To see the sparkling spring in that bright face 

Its mirror make — 
On summer morns to hear the cweet birds sing 

By linn and lake ; 
And know your voice, your magic voice, could still a 
grander music Avake ! 

On some old shell-strewn rock to sit 

In autumn eves, 
Where gray Killiney cools the torrid air 

^lot autumn weaves ; 



IRISH BALLADS. 



197 



Or by that Holy Well in mountain lone, 

Where Faith believes 
(Fain would I b'Jieve) its secret, darling, wish 

The heart achieves. 
Tet, oh, its .Saint was not more pure than she to whom 
my fond heart cleaves. 

To see the dank mid- winter nigh* 

Pass like a noon, 
Heated with thought from minds that teemed, 

And glowed like June : 
Where Art would pass in scuip'd and pictured train 

Its magic boon ; 
And Music thrill with many a haughty strain, 

And dear old tune. 
Till hearts grew sad to hear the ^„itined hour to part 
had come so soon. 



To wake the old weird world that sleeps 

In Irish lore ; 
The strains sweet foreign Spenser sung 

By Mulla's shore ; 
Dear Curran's airy thoughts, liSr purple birds 

That shine and soar : 
Tone's fiery hopes, and Gratter* - 'hunder-words 

A nation swore ; 
The songs that once our own defo* "*>avis sung ; ah, me J 
to sing no more. 

To search with mother-love the gifts 

Our land can boast — 
Soft Erna's isles, Neagh's wooded uopes, 

Clare's iron coast ; 
Kildare, whose legends gray our bosoms stir 

With fay and ghost ; 
Gray Mourne, green Antrim, purple Glenmalur — 

Lene's fairy host ; 
With raids to many a foreign laJk **> team to love dear 
Ir*» J <md most. 



198 BOOK 07 

And all those proud old victor-fields 

We thrill to name ; 
Whose mem'ries are the stars that light 

Long nights of shame ; 
The Cairn, the Dun, the Rath, the Tower, the Keep, 

That still proclaim 
In chronicles of clay and stone, how true, how deep, 

Was Eire's fame, 
Oh 1 we shall see them all, with her, that dear, deal 
friend we two have loved the same. 

Yet ah ! how truer, tend'rer still 

Methought did seem 
That scene of tranquil joy, that happy home, 

By Dodder's stream ; 
The morning smile, that grew a fixed star 

With love-lit beam, 
The ringing laugh, locked hands, and all the far 

And shining stream 
Of daily love, that made our daily life diviner than a 
dream. 

For still to me dear friend, dear Love, 

Or both— dear Wife, 
Your image comes with serious thoughts, 

But tender, rife ; 
Mb petted plaything to caress or chide 

In sport or strife ; 
But my best chosen friend, companion, guide, 

To walk through life 
Lsnk'd hand in hand, two equal, loving friends, tme 
husband and true wife. 



IBI8H BAL.LA.DtS. ISO 

COULIN. 
BY CAKOLL MALONE. 

fin the twenty-eighth year of the reign of Henry VIIT. an act 
was made respecting the habits and dress in general of the Irish, 
whereby all persons were restrained from being shorn or shaven above 
the ears, or from wearing glibbes. or Coulins (long locks) on their 
heads, or hair on their upper lip, called Crommeal. On this occasion a 
Bong was written by one of our bards, in which an Irish virgin is made 
to give the preference to her dear Coulin (or the youth with the flow- 
ing locks \ to all strangers (by which the English were meant), or those 
who wore their habits. Of this song the air alone has reached us, 
and is universally admired. — Walker, as quoted in Moore's Melodies. 

It so happens, however, on turning to the above statute, that no 
mention is to be found therein of the Coulin. But in the year 1295, a 
Parliament was held in Dublin; and then an act was passed which 
more than expressly names the Coulin, and minutely describes it for 
its more effectual prohibition. This, the only statute made in Ireland 
that names the Coulin, was passed two hundred and forty-two years 
before the act cited by Mr. Moore; and, in consequence of it, some of 
the Irish Chieftains who lived near the seat of English government, or 
wisheii to keep up intercourse with the English districts, did, in or soon 
after that year, 1295, cut off their Coulii s, and a distinct memorial o( 
the event was made in writing by the Officers of the Crown. It was 
on this occasion that the bard, ever adhesive to national habits, endea- 
voured to fire the patriotism of a conforming chieftain; and, in the 
character of some favourite virgin, declares her preference for her 
lover with the Coulin, before him who complaisantly assumed the 
adornments of foreign fashion. — Dublin Penny Journal.] 

The last time she looked in the face of her dear, 
She breathed not a sigh, and she shed not a tear ; 
But she took up his harp, and she kissed his cold cheek-^ 
" 'Tis the first, and the last, for thy Norah to seek." 

For beauty and bravery Cathan "was known, 

And the long flowing coulin he wore in Tyrone ; 

The sweetest of singers and harpers was he, • 

All over the North, from the Bann to the sea. 

O'er th» marshes of Dublin ne often would rove, 

To the glens of O'Toole, where he met with his lore ; 

And at parting they pledged that, next midsummer's 

day, 
He would come for the last time, and bear her away. 



200 book vr 

The king had forbidden the men of O'Neal, 
With the coulin adorned, to come o'er the pule; 
But Norah was Irish, and said, in her pride, 
" If he wear not his coulin, I'll ne'er be his bride/ 



The bride has grown pale as the robe that she wears. 
For the Lammas is come, and no bridegroom appears ; 
And she hearkens and gazes, when all are at rest, 
For the sound of his harp and the sheen of his vest. 

Her palfrey is pillioned, and she has gone forth 
On the long rugged road that leads down to the North ;— . 
Where Eblana's strong castle frowns darkly and drear, 
Is the head of her Cathan upraised on a spear. 

The Lords of the Castle had murdered him there, 
And all for the wearing that poor lock of hair i 
For the word she had spoken in mirth or in pride, 
Her lover, too fond and too faithful, had died. 

'Twas then that she looked in the face of he/ dear, 
She breathed not a sigh, and she dropped not a tear; 
She took up his harp, and she kissed his cold cheek : 
" Farewell 1 'tis the first for thy Norah to seek." 

And afterward, oft would the wilderness ring, 

As, at night, in sad strains, to that harp she would 

sing 
Eer heartbreaking tones, — we remember them well-. 
But the words of her wailing, no mortal can tell. 



IRISH BALLADS. 201 



MAUKYEEN. 

The cottage is here as of old I remember, 
The pathway is worn as it always hath been ; 

On the turf-piled liearth there still lives a bright ember. 
But where is Mauryeen ? 

The same pleasant prospect still lieth before me, — 
The river— the mountain — the valley of green ; 

And heaven itself (a bright blessing !) is o'er me : — 
Bu.i where is Mauryeen ? 

Lost ! lose: rike a dream that hath come and departed 
(Ah, why are the loved and the lost ever seen ?) 

She has fallen — hath flown — with a lover false-hearted— 
So mourn for Mauryeen 1 

And she who so loved her is slain — (the poor mother !) 
Struck dead in a day by a shadow unseen ; 

And the home we once loved is the home of another — 
And lost is Mauryeen ! 

Sweet Shannon, a moment by thee let me ponder — 
A moment look back to the tilings that have been : 

Then away to the world, where the ruin'd ones wande? 3 
To seek for Mauryeen I 

Pale peasant, perhaps, 'nea'-h the frown of high HeaTeUj 
She roams the dark d°«erts of sorrow unseen, 

Cnpitied — unknown ; but I — / shall know even 
The ghost of Mauryeen ! 



A LAMENT. 

BY D. F. M'CARTHT. 

Ya esta llama se desata, 
Ya caduca este edificio, 
Ya se desmaya esta flor. 



The dream is over, 
The vision has flown ; 
Dead leaves are lying 
Where roses have blown ; 
Wither'd and strown 
Are the hopes I cherished. 
All have perished 
But grief alone. 

My heart was a gardeo 
Where fresh leaves grew .; 
Flowers there were many. 
And weeds a few ; 
Cold winds blew, 
And the frosts came thithsSj 
For flowers will wither, 
And weeds renew 1 

Youth's bright palace 
Is overthrown, 
With its diamond sceptn* 
And golden throne ; 
As a time-worn sto ne 
Its turrets are humbled, 
All have crumbled 
But grief alone ! 

Whither, oh 1 whither 
Have fled away 
The dreams and hopes 
Of my early day ? 



IRISH BALLADS. 

Ruined ind gray 
Are Uie towers I buildei ; 
And tliH beams that gilded— 
Ah 1 w uere are they ? 

Once this world 
Was fresh and bright, 
With its golden noon 
And its starry night ; 
Glad and light, 
By mountain and river, 
Have I bless'd the Giver 
With hushed delight. 

These irere the days 

Of story and song, 

"When Hope had a meaning 

And Faith was strong. 

•'Life will be long, 

And lit with Love's gleau«iagg ; 

Such were my dreamings, 

Bat, ah ! how wrong ! 

Youth's illusions, 
One by one, 
Have passed like clouds 
That the sun looked on. 
"While morning shone, 
How purple their fringes ! 
How ashy their tinges 
"When that was gone ! 

Darkness that cometh 
Ere morn has fled — 
Boughs that wither 
Ere fruits are shed — 
Death bells instead 
Of a bridal's pealings—- 
Such are my feeiings, 
Since Hope is dead i 



Sad i3 the knowledge 

That cometh with year*— 

Bitter the tree 

That is watered with tea«j 

Truth appears, 

With his wise prediction** 

Then vanish the fictieo 

Of boyhood's years. 

As fire-flies fade 
"When the nights are i 
As meteors are quench/y! 
In a stagnant swamp — 
Thus Charlemagne's ~imf 
Where the Paladine rally. 
And the Diamond V*!]**-' 
And Wonderful Lamp, 

And all the wonders 
Ct Ganges and Nile, 
And Haroun's rambles, 
And Crusoe's isle, 
And Princes who smile 
On the Genii's dau^ter* 
'Neath the Orient water* 
Full many a mile. 

And all that the peu 
Of Fancy can write. 
Mast vanifih 

In manhood's misty lUjfeW* 
Squire and knight, 
And damosel's glautiiA, 
Sunny romances 
So pure and bright 1 

These have vanished. 
And what remain* ? 
life's budding gariaad* 
Have turned to chain*-* 



IRISH BALLADS. 205 

Its beams and rains 

Feed but docks and thistle*— » 

And sorrow whistles 

O'er desert plains I 

The dove will fly ... 
From a ruined nest — 
Love will not dwell 
In a troubled breast — 
The heart has no zest 
To sweeten life's dolor— 
If Love, the Consoler, 
Be not its guest 1 

The dream is ovei, 
The vision has flown ; 
Dead leaves are lying 
Where roses have blown 5 
Wither'd and strown 
Are the hopes I cherished, 
All have perished 
But grief alone ! 



YOUNG KATE OF KTLCUMMER, 

[Kilcnmmer is in the County of Cork, on the east side of ; 
A'Sfbeg, not far distant from the town of Doneraile.] 

There are flowers in the valley . 

And fruit on the hill, 
Sweet-scented and smiling, 

Resort where you will. 
But the sweetest and brighteet. 

In spring-time or summer, 
Is the girl of my heart, 

Ihe young Kate of Kilcummer,. 

Oh ! I'd wander from day-break 

Till night's gloomy fall, 
Full sure such another 

I'd ne'er meet at «11. 



P IRISH BALLADS 

As the rose to the bee, 

As the sunshine to sainmei-, 
So welcome to me 

Is young Kate of Kilcummer. 



THE MOUNTAIN DEW. 

BY SAMUEL LOVER. 

By yon mountain tipp'd with cloud, 
By the torrent foaming loud, 
By the dingle where the purple hells of heather grew, 
Where the Alpine flow'rs are hid, 
And where hounds the nimble kid, 
There we wandered both together through the mountain 

dew! 
With what delight in summer's night we trod the twi- 

light gloom, 
The air so full of fragrance from the flowers so full ol 

bloom, 
And our hearts so full of joy — for aught else there was 

no room, 
And we wandered both together through the mountain 
dew. 



Those sparkling gems that rest 

On the mountain's flow'ry breast 
Are like the joys we number — they are light and few. 

For a while to earth are given, 

And are called again to heaven, 
When the spirit of the morning steals the mountain dew. 
But memory, angelic, makes a heaven on earth for men, 
Her rosy light recalleth bright the dew-drops back again, 
The warmth of love exhales them from that well-remem- 
bered glen, 
Where we wandered both together through the 
tain dew 1 



POLITICAL BALLADS. 



THE MUSTER OE THE NORTH. 

A.D. 1641. 
BY CHARLES GATAN DUFFY. 

[We deny, and have always denied, the alleged massacre of 1641. 
But that the people rose under their Chiefs, seized the Kr.glish towns, 
•nd expelled the English settlers, and in doing so committed many 
excesses, is undeniable— as is equally the desperate provocation. The 
Ballad here printed is not meant as an apology for these excesses, 
which we condemn and lament, but as a true representation of the 
feelings of the Insurgents in the first madness of success.] 

Joy ! joy ! the day is come at last, the day of hope and 
pride, 

And see ! our crackling bonfires light old Banna's joyful 
tide, 

And gladsome bell, and bugle horn, from Inbhar's* cap- 
tured Towers, 

Hark ! how they tell the Saxon swine, this land is ours, 
is ours! 

Glory to God ! my eyes have seen the ransomed fields of 

Down, 
My ears have drunk the joyful news, " Stout Feidhlinrl 

hath his own." 
Oh ! may they see and hear no more, oh I may they ro* 

to clay, 
lyhen they forget to triumpn in the conquest of to-day. 

Nawrr- f JPhelim. 



2(8 



BOOK OP 



Now, now we'll teach the shameless Scot to purge his 

thievish maw, 
Now , now the courts may fall to pray, for j ustice is the law, 
Now shall the Undertaker* square for once his loose 

accounts, 
We 11 strike, brave boys, a fair result, from all his false 

amounts. 

Con e, trample down their robber rule, and smite its 

venal spawn, 
Their foreign laws, their foreign church, their ermine 

and their lawn, 
With all the specious fry of fraud that robb'd us of our 

own; 
Acd plant our ancient laws again, beneath our lineal 

throne. 

Ou standard flies o'er fifty towers, o'er twice ten thou- 
sand men ; 

Dc n have we pluck'd the pirate Red, never to rise 
agen ; 

The Green alone shall stream above our native field and 
flood— 

The spotless Green, save where its folds are gemmed 
with Saxon blood ! 

Fity 1 f no, no ; you dare not, Priest— not you, our Fa- 
ther, dare 

Preach to us now that Godless creed — the murderer's 
blood to spare ; 

To spare his blood, while tombless still our slaughtered 
kin implore 

" Graves and revenge" from Gobbin-Cliffs and Carrick's 
bloody shore ! % 

• The Scotch and English adventurers planted in Ulster by James I 
^ere called I ndertakers. ' 

t Leland, the Protestant Historian, states that the Catholic Priests 
" laboured zealously to moderate the excesses of war;" and frequently pro- 
tected the English by concealing them in their places of worship, and 
even under their altars. 

t The scene of the dreadful massacre of the unoffending inhabitants 
of Island Magu. by the garrison of Canickfergus 



IRISH BALLADS. 209 

Pity ! — could we "forget — forgive," if we were clods of 

clay, 
Our martyred priests, our banished chiefs, our race in 

dark decay, 
And worse than all — you know it, Priest — the daughters 

of our land, 
With wrongs we blushed to name until the sword .was 

in our hand 1 



Pity ! well, if you needs must whine, let pity have its 
way, 

Pity for all our comrades true, far from our side to-day; 

The prison-bound who rot in chains, the faithful dead 
who poured 

Their blood 'neath Temple's lawless axe or Parsons' ruf- 
fian sword. 



They smote us with the swearer's oath, and with the 

murderer's knife, 
We in the open field will fight, fairly for land and life; 
But, by the Dead and all their wrongs, and by our 

hopes to-day, 
One of us twain shall fight their last, or be it we 01 

they— 

lliey banned our faith, they banned our lives, they trod 

us into earth, 
Until our very patience stirred their bitter hearts to 

mirth ; 
Even this great flame that wraps them now, not we but 

they have bred, 
Yes, this is their own work, and now, their work be on 

their head. 



Nay, Father, tell us not of help from Leinster's Nor- 
man Peers, 
If that we shape our \\o\y cause to match their selfish 



210 book or 

Helpless and hopeless be their cause, who brook a vain 

delay, 
Our ship is launched, our flag's afloat, whether they 

come or stay. " 

Let silken Howth, and savage Slane still kiss their 

tyrant's rod, 
And pale Dunsany still prefer his Master to his God ; 
Little we heed their father's sons the Marchnien of the 

Pale, 
If Irish hearts and Irish hands have Spanish blades 

and mail? 

Then, let them stay to bow and fawn, or fight with cun- 
ning words ; 

I fear me more their courtly arts than England's hire- 
ling swords ; 

Natheless their creed they hate us still, as the Despoiler 
hates, 

Could they love us and love their prey — our kins- 
men's lost estates ! 

Our rude array's a jagged rock to smash the spoiler's 
power, 

Or need we aid, His aid we have who doomed this gra- 
cious hour ; 

Of yore He led his Hebrew host to peace through strife 
and pain, 

And us He leads the self-same path, the self-same goal 
to gain. 

Down from the sacred hills whereon a Saint* communed 
with God, 

Up from the vale where Bagnall's blood manured the 
reeking sod, 

Out from the stately woods of Triuch.f M'Keiina's plun- 
dered home, 

LikeMalin's waves, as fierce and fast, our faithful clans- 
men come. 

* St. Patrick, whose favourite retreat was Leath Chathail, (Lecale 
Cathal's half,) in the county Down. 
+ Improperly written Truagh. 



IRISH BALLA 



211 



Then, brethren, on ! — O'Neill's dear shade would frowr) 
to see you pause — 

Our banished* Hugh, our martyred Hug 
oVr your cause — 

His geu'rous error lost the land — he deem'd the Nor- 
man true, 

Oh, forward ! friends, it must not lose the land again in 
youl 



DARK EOSALEEN. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH 

BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 

[This impassioned 'ballad, entitled in the original Roisin Duh for 
The Black Little Rose\ was written in the reign of Elizabeth by one 
of the poets of the celebrated Tirconnellian chieftain, Hugh the Red 
O'Donnell. It purports to be an allegorical address from Hugh to Ire- 
land on the subject of his love and struggles for her, and his resolve to 
raise her again to the glorious position she held as a nation before the 
irruption of the Saxon and Norman spoilers. 'Die true character and 
meaning of the figurative allusions with which it abounds, and to two 
only of which I need refer here — viz., the "Roman wine" and " Span- 
ish ale" mentioned in the first stanza— the intelligent reader will, of 
course, find no difficulty in understanding.] 

O my Dark Rosaleen, 

Do not sigh, do not weep ! 
The priests are on the ocean green, 

They march along the deep. 
There's wine... from the royal Pope, 

Upon the ocean green ; 
And Spanish ale shall give you hope, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, 
Shall give you health, and help, and hope, 
My Dark Rosaleen ! 



212 



Over hills, and through dale9, 

Have I roamed for your sake ; 
All yesterday I sailed with sails 

On river and on lake. 
The Erne, ...at its highest flood, 

I dashed across unseen, 
For there was lightning in my blood, 

My Dark Eosaleen 1 

My own Rosaleen 1 
Oh 1 there was lightning in my blood, 
Eed lightning lightened through my blocfio 

My Dark Eosaleen 1 



All day long, in unrest, 

To and fro, do I more. 
The very soul within my breast 

Is wasted for you, love 1 
The heart. ..in my bosom faints 

To think of you, my queen, 
My life of life, my saint of saints, 

My Dark Rosaleen 1 

My own Eosaleen ! 
To hear your sweet and sad complaints, 
My life, my love, my saint of saints, 

My Dark Eosaleen 1 



Wo and pain, pain and wo, 

Are my lot, night and noon, 
To see your bright face clouded so, 

Like to the mournful moon. 
But yet will I rear your throne 

Again in golden sheen ; 
'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, 

My Dark Rosaleen 1 

My own Rosaleen ! 
'Tis you shah have the golden throne^ 
Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, 

My Dark Eosaleen ! 



IRISH BALLADS. 818 

Over dews, over sands, 

"Will I fly, for your weal : 
Your holy delicate white hands 

Shall girdle me with steel. 
At home in your emerald bowers, 

From morning's dawn till e'en, 
You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers, 

My Dark llosaleen ! 

My fond Eosaleen ! 
You'll think of me through daylight's hours, 
My virgin flower, my flower of flowers, 

My Dark Eosaleen ! 

- could scale the blue air, 

I could plough the high hills, 
Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer, 

To heal your many ills ! 
And one beamy smile from you 

Would float like light between 
My toils and me, my own, my true, 

My Dark Eosaleen 1 

My fond Eosaleen ! 
Would give ine life and soul anew, 
A second life, a soul anew, 

My Dark Eosaleen 1 

O ! the Erne shall run red 

With redundance of blood, 
The earth shall rock beneath our tread, 

And flames wrap hill and wood, 
And gun-peal, and slogan cry, 

"Wake many a glen serene, 
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die. 

My Dark Eosaleen ! 

My own Eosaleen ! - 
The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, 
Ere you can fade, ere you can die. 

My Dark Eosaleen ! 



214 



DRIMIN DHU. 

A JACOBITE EELIC — TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH. 
BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I. A. 

Ah, Drimin Dhu deelish, a pride of the flow,* 
Ah, where are your folks, are they living or no? ' 
They're down in the ground, 'neath the sod lying low, 
Expecting King James with the crown on his brow. 

But if I could get sight of the crown on his brow, 
By night and day travelling to London I'd go ; 
Over mountains of mist and soft mosses below, 
Till I'd beat on the kettle-drums, Drimin Dhubh, O I 

"Welcome home, welcome home, Drimin Dhubh, 1 
Good was your sweet milk, for drinking I trow ; 
With your face like a rose, and your dew-lap of snow, 
I'll part from you never, ah, Drimin Dhubh, O ! 



SHANE BWEE; OR, THE CAPTIVITY OF THE 
GAEL. 



BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 

[A Translation of the Jacobite song called " Geibionn na-n-Gaoideil," 
written by Owen Roe O'Sullivan, a Kerry poet, who flourished about 
the middle of the last century. t] 

'Twas by sunset... I walked and wandered 
Over hill sides... and over moors, 

• The soft grassy part of the bog. 

+ His death, it lias been stated by Mr. Edward Walshe— a gentleman, 
by the way, to whose literary exertions Ireland is indebted almost 
beyond her power of repayment— occurred in the year 1784. Wa 
may, therefore, suppose this song to have been written by the author 
is his youth— perhaps about the year 1740 



IRISH BALLADS. S14 

With a many sighs and tears 
Sunk in sadness, ...I darkly pondered 
All the wrongs our. ..lost land endures 
In these latter night-black years. 
•'How," I mused, " has her worth departed! 
What a ruin. ..her fame is now ! 
We, once free-est of the Free, 
We are trampled. ..and broken-hearted ; 

Yea, even our Princes. ..themselves must bow 
Low before the vile Shane Bwee !"* 

Nigh a stream, in. ..a grassy hollow, 
Tired, at length, I.. .lay down to rest — 
There the birds and balmy air 
Bade new reveries. ..and cheerier follow, 
Waking newly. ..within my breast 
Thoughts that cheated my despair. 
Was I waking. ..or was \ dreaming? 

I glanced up, and. .. behold ! there shone 
Such a vision over me ! 
A young girl, bright. ..as Erin's beaming 
Guardian spirit — now sad and lone, 
Through the Spoiling of Shane Bwee ! 

O, for pencil. ..to paint the golden 
Locks that waved in. ..luxuriant sheen 
To her feet of stilly light ! 
(Not the Fleece that. ..in ages olden 
Jason bore o'er. ..the ocean green 
Into Hellas, gleamed so bright.) 
And the eyebrows. ..thin-arch'd over 
Her mild eyes, and. ..more, even more 
Beautiful, methought, to see 
Than those rainbows. ..that wont to hover 
O'er our blue island-lakes of yo*-e. 
Ere the Spoiling by Shane Bweel 



*Seagan Buidhe, Yellow John, a name applied first to the PraiM 
of Orange, and afterwards to his adherents generally. 



" Bard !" she spake, " deem. ..not this unreal. 
I was niece of.. .a Pair whose peers 
None shall see on Earth agen — 
./Ecngus Con, and. ..the Dark O'Niall, 
Rulers over...Iern in years 

When her sons as yet were Men. 
Times have darkened;. ..and now our holy 
Altars crumble,. ..and castles fall; 

Our groans ring through Christendee. 
Still, despond not! .HE comes, though slowly, 
He, the Man, who shall disenthral 

The PROUD CAPTIVE of Shane Bwee I" 

Here she vanished;. ..and I, in sorrow 
Blent with joy, rose... and went my way 
Homeward over moor and hill. 
O, Great God ! Thou. ..from whom we borrow 
Life and strength, unto Thee I pray I 
Thou, who swayest at Thy will 
Hearts and councils, ...thralls, tyrants, freemen, 
Wake through Europe. ..the ancient soul, 
And on every shore and sea, 
From the Blackwater to the Dniemen, 
Freedom's Bell will. ..ere long time toll 
The deep death-knell of Shane Bwee ! 



THE VOICE OE LABOUR. 

J CHANT OP THE CITT MEETINGS. 

A.r>. 1843. 
BY. CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 

Ye who despoil the sons of toil, saw ye this sight to-day, 
When stalwart trade in long brigade, beyond a king's 
array 

« Niall Dubh. 



IRISH BALLADS. 217 

Marched in the blessed light of heaven, beneath the 

open sky, 
Strong in the might of sacred right, that none dave 

ask them why ? 
These are the slaves, the needy knaves, ye spit upon 

with scorn — 
The spawn of earth, of nameless birth, and basely bred 

as born ; 
Yet know, ye weak and silken lords, -were we the thing 

ye say, 
Your broad domains, your coffered gains, your lives were 

ours to-day ! 

Measure that rank, from flank to flank ; 'tis fifty thou- 
sand strong ; 

And mark you here, in front and rear, brigades as deep 
and long ; 

And know that never blade of foe, or Arran's deadly 
breeze, 

Tried by assay of storm or fray, more dauntless hearts 
than these ; 

The sinewy Smith, little he recks of his own child — the 
sword ; 

The men of gear, think you they fear their handiwork 
— a Lord ? 

And undismayed, yon sons of trade might see the bat- 
tle's front, 

Who bravely bore, nor bowed before, the deadlier face 
of want. 

What lack we here of show and form that lure your 
kerns to death ? 

Not serried bands, nor sinewy hands, nor music's mar- 
tial breath ; 

And if we broke the slavish yoke our suppliant race 
endure, 

No robbers we — but chivalry — the Army of the Poor 

Out on ye now, ye Lordly crew, that do your betters 
"wrong — 

We are no base and braggart mob, but merciful and 
strong. 



*18 BOOK OF 

Tour henchmen vain, your vassal train, would fly out 

first defiance ; 
In us — in our strong, tranquil breasts— abides your sole 

reliance. 

Ay [ keep them all, castle and hall, coffers and costly 
jewels — 

Keep your vile gain, and in its train the passions that it 
fuels. 

We envy not your lordly lot — its bloom or its decay- 
ance ; 

But ye have that we claim as ours — our right in long 
abeyance : 

Leisure to live, leisure to love, leisure to taste our free- 
dom — 

Oh ! suffering poor, oh! patient poor, how bitterly you 
need them ! 

"Ever to moil, ever to toil," that is your social charter, 

And city slave or rustic serf, the toiler is its martyr. 

Where Frank and Tuscan shed their sweat the goodly 

crop is theirs — 
If Norway's toil make rich the soil, she eats the fruit she 

rears — 
O'er Maine's green sward there rules no lord, saving the 

Lord on high ; 
But we are serfs in our own land — proud masters, tell us 

why? 
The German burgher and his men, brother with bro> 

thers live, 
While toil must wait without your gate what gracioui 

crusts you give. 
Long in your sight, for our own right, like stricken slaves 

we bend ; — 
Why did we bow ? why do we now ?— My masters, this 

must end. 

Perish the past — a generous land is this fair land of ours, 
And enmity may no man see between its Towns and 
Towers. 



IRISH BALLADS. 218 

Come, join our bands — here take our hands — now shame 
on him that lingers, 

Merchant or Peer, you have no fear from labour's blis- 
tered fingers. 

Come, join at last — perish the past — its traitors, its se- 
ceders— 

Proud names and old, frank hearts and bold, come join 
and be our Leaders. 

But know, ye lords, that be your swords with us or with 
our Wronger, 

Heaven be our guide, we Toilers bide this lot of shame no 
longer 1 



THE DKEAM OF JOHN MAC DONNELL. 

TRANSLATED FROM THB IRISH. 
BY JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN. 



[John Mac Donnell, usually called Mac Donnell Claragh, from his 
family residence, was a native of the County of Cork, and may ba 
classed anions the first of the purely Irisli poets of the last century. 
He was horn in 1691, and died in 175-1. His poems are remarkable for 
their energy, their piety of tone, and the patriotic spirit they every 
where manifest. The following is one of tliem, and deserves to be 
regarded as a very curious topographical ■' Jacobite relic.'" 



I lay in unrest — old thoughts of pain, 

That I struggled in vain to smother, 
Like midnight spectres haunted my brain 

Dark fantasies chased each other ; 
When, lo ! a Figure — who might it be ? 

A tall fair figure stood near me ! 
Who might it be ? An unreal Banshee ? 

Or an angel sent to cheer me ? 



220 BOOK OF 

Though years have rolled since then, yet now 

My memory thrillingly lingers 
On her awful charms, her waxen brow, 

Her pale translucent fingers ; — 
Her eyes that mirrored a wonder-world, 

Her mien of unearthly mildness, 
And her waving raven tresses that curled 

To the ground in beautiful wildness. 

" Whence comest thou, Spirit?" I asked, methoughtj 

" Thou art not one of the Banished ?" 
Alas, for me ! she answered nought, 

But rose aloft and vanished ; 
And a radiance, like to a glory, beamed 

In the light she left behind her, 
Long time I wept, and at last medreamed 

I left my shieling to find her. 

And first I turned to the thunderous North, 

To Gruagach's mansion kingly ; 
Untouching the earth, I then sped forth 

To Inver-lough, and the shingly 
And shining strand of the fishful Erne, 

And thence to Cruachan the golden, 
Of whose resplendent palace ye learn 

So many a marvel olden ! 

I saw the Mourna's billows flow — 

I passed the walls of Shenady, 
And stood in the hero-thronged Ardroe, 

Embosked amid greenwoods shady ; 
And visited that proud pile that stands 

Above the Boyne's broad waters, 
"Where iEngus dwells with his warrior-bands 

And the fairest of Ulster's daughters. 

To the halls of Mac Lir, to Creevroe's height, 

To Tara, the glory of Erin, 
To the fairy palace that glances bright 

On the peak of the blue Cnocfeerin, 



IRISH BALLADS. 

I vainly hied. I went west and cast — 
I travelled seaward and shoreward — 

But thus was I greeted in field and at feast— 
" Thy way lies onward and foreward 1" 

At last I reached, I wist not how, 

The royal towers of Ival, 
Which, under the cliff's gigantic brow, 

Still rise without a rival ; 
And here were Thomond's chieftains all, 

With armour, and swords, and lances, 
And here sweet music filled the hall, 

And damsels charmed with dances. 

And here, at length, on a silvery throne, 

Half seated, half reclining, 
With forehead white as the marble stone, 

And garments so starrily shining, 
And features beyond the poet's pen — 

The sweetest, saddest features — 
Appeared before me once agen, 

That fairest of Living Creatures ! 

"Draw near, mortal!" she said, with a sigh, 

" And hear my mournful story ! 
The Guardian-Spirit of Erin am I, 

But dimmed is mine ancient glory. 
My priests are banished, my warriors wear 

No longer Victory's garland ; 
And my Child,* my Son, my beloved Heir, 

Is an exile in a far •" 

I heard no more — I saw no more — 

The bands of slumber were broken ; 
And palace and hero, and river and shore, 

Had vanished, and left no token. 
Dissolved was the spell that had bound my will, 

And my fancy thus for a season ; 
But a sorrow therefore hangs over me still, 

Despite of the teachings of Reason ! 

* Charles Stuart. 



221 



222 



THE WEXFORD INSURGENT. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE IRISH. 

The "heroes of Wexford have burst through their chains 

And the voice of the freeman is loud o'er her plains 

The Sassanachs are broken, their horsemen have fled, 
And the pride of their host on the mountain lie dead. 

For roused is the blood of the bold Shilmaleer, 
The pride of the conflict when foemen are near — 
And the heroes of Bargy and Bantry are there, 
Iu the shock ever foremost, in flight in the rere. 

Oh ! soon will the hearths of the traitors be lone, 
And their halls but re-echo the shriek and the groan, 
And the red flame shall burst thro' their roofs to the 

sky, 
For the hour of our freedom and vengeance is nigh. 

The men of the mountain are down in the vale, 
And the flags of Shelburny are loose to the gale — 
And tho' gentle the Forth, yet her sons never slight. 
For the mildest in peace are oft boldest in fight. 

The cold-blooded Sassanach is low on the hill, 
Like the red rock he presses, as lone and as chill — 
There, pulseless and cold, the pale beams of the moon 
Show the deep-riven breast of the fallen dragoon. 

And low lies his charger, his bosom all torn, 
And from the dark helmet the horse hair is shorn, 
And the hearts of the great, and the brave, and the 

proud, 
Have been trampled in death when the battle was loud. 

Oh ! long in fair England each maiden may mourn — 
The pride of her bosom will never return ; 
His heart's blood is scattered— his last prayer is said — 
And the dark raven flaps his wild wing o'er the dead 



IRISH BALLADS. 



Yes, long she may call him from battle in vain— 
The sight of her lovor she ne'er shall regain : 
All cold is his bosom, and crimson his brow, 
And the night wind is sighing its dirge o'er him now. 



THE ORANGEMAN'S WIFE. 

BY CAROLL MALONE. 

I wander by the limpid shore, 
When fields and fiowrets bloom ; 

But, oh ! my heart is sad and sore— 
My soul is sunk in gloom — 

All day I cry ohone 1 ohone I 
I weep from night till morn — 

I wish fchat I were dead and gone, 

. Or never had been born. 

My father dwelt beside Tyrone, 
And with him children five ; 

But I to Charlemont had gone, 
At service there to live. 

O brothers fond ! O sister dear ! 
How ill I paid your love ! 

father ! father ! how I fear 
To meet thy soul above ! 

My mother left us long ago, — 
A lovely corpse was she, — 

But we had longer days of wo 
In this sad world to be. 

My weary days will soon be dons— 
I pine in grief forlorn ; 

1 wish that I were dead and gone. 
Or never had been born. 



224 



It was the year of ninety-eight ; 

The wreckers came about ; 
They burned my father's stack of wheal, 

And drove my brothers out ; 
They forced my sister to their lust — 

God grant my father rest ! 
For the captain of the wrsckers thrust 

A bayonet through his breast. 

It was a dreadful, dreadful year ; 

And I was blindly led, 
In love, and loneliness, and fear, 

A loyal man to wed ; 
And still my heart is his alone, 

It breaks, but cannot turn : 
I wish that I were dead and gone, 

Or never had been born. 

Next year we lived in quiet love, 

And kissed our infant boy ; 
And peace had spread her wings above 

Our dwelling at the Moy. 
And then my wayworn brothers came 

To share our peace and rest ; 
And poor lost Rose, to hide her shame 

And sorrow in my breast. 

They came, but soon they turned and fled-*} 

Preserve my soul, God ! 
It was my husband's hand, they said, 

That shed my father's blood. 
All day I cry ohone ! oh one ! 

I weep from night till morn ; 
And oh, that I were dead and gone. 

Or never had been born ! 



IRISH BALLADS. 



THE IRISH CHIEFS. 

BY CHARLES GAVAN DUFFY. 

Oh! to hare lived like an Irish Chief, when hearts 

were fresh and true, 
And a manly thought, like a pealing bell, Avould quicken 

them through and through ; 
And the seed of a gen'rous hope right soon to a fiery 

action grew, 
And men would have scorned to talk, and talk, and 
never a deed to do. 

Oh ! the iron grasp, 
And the kindly clasp, 
And the laugh so fond and gay ; 
And the roaring board, 
And the ready sword, 
"Were the types of that vanished day. 

Oh ! to have lived as Brian lived, and to die as Brian 

died; 
His land to win with the sword, and smile,* as a war- 
rior wins his bride. 
To knit its force in a kingly host, and rule it with 

kingly pride, 
And still in the girt of its guardian swords over victoi 
fields to ride ; 

And when age was past, 
And when death came fast, 
To look with a softened eye 
On a happy race 
Who had loved his face, 
And to die as a king should die. 



* Our great Brian is called an usurper, inasmuch as he combiDe£ 
fey force ar.d policy, the scattered and jealous powers of the isiand 
Into one sovereignty, and ruled it himself, by the true Divine right of 



'£& 300K OF 

Oh ! to have lived dear Owen's life — to live for a solemn 

end, , 

To strive for the ruling strength and skill God's saints 

to the Chiibcu send ; 
And to come at length, with that holy strength, the 

bondage of fraud to rend, 
And pour the light of God's freedom in where Tyrants 
and Slaves were denned ; 
And to bear the brand 
"With an equal hand, 
Like a soldier of Truth and Right* 
And, eh! Saints, to die. 
While our flag flew high, 
SJbr to look on its fall or flight 



Ou . to nave lived as Grattan lived, in the glow of his 

manly years, 
To thunder again those iron words that smite like the 

clash of spears ; 
Once more to blend for a holy end, our peasants, and 

priests, and peers, 
Till England raged, like a baffled fiend, at the tramp of 
our Volunteers. 

And, oh ! best of all, 
Far rather to fall 
(With a blesseder fate than he,) 
On a conqu'ring field, 
Than one right to yield, 
Of the Island so proud and free! 



Yet, scorn to cry on the days of old, when hearts were 

fresh and true, 
If hearts be weak, oh ! chiefly then the Missioned thei* 

work must do ; 
Nor wants our day its own fit way, the want is in you 

and you ,■ 
For these eyes have seen as kingly a King as ever dear 

Erin knew. 



IRISH BALLADS. 

And with Brian's will, 

And with Owen's skill, 
And with glorious Grattan's love. 

He had freed us soon — 

But deatli darkened his noon, 
And he sits with the saints above. 

Oh » could you live as Davis lived — kind Heaven bft raft 

led! 
With an eye to guide, and a hand to rule, and a calm 

and kingly head, 
And a heart from whence, like a Holy Well, the soul of 

his land was fed. 
No need to cry on the days of old that your holiest hops 
be sped. 

Then scorn to pray 
For a bye-past day — 
The whine of the sightless chimb! 
To t!ie true and wise 
let a king arise, 
Jlad a holier day is ®ms 5 



MISCELLANEOUS BALLADS. 



THE SAINT'S TENANT. 

BT THOMAS TURLONG. 

[This painful ballad illustrates a system of bigotry, injustice, and op- 
pression which, I believe, has almost entirely ceased to exist in this 
country. Education is not now to be purchased at so great a risk, and 
at such a cost. The means at present available, or about to be made 
available, may not be as perfect as some of us would wish; but we 
should not forget the unspeakable danger and suffering to soul and 
body from which, in this respect, at least, the people have escaped. I 
would wish to refer the reader to another poem on this subject, enti- 
tled "The Penal Days," which 1 have placed third in this division— 
I have not inserted these poems, however, or any other in the vo- 
lume, on political grounds. Literary merit and' Irish feeling, no 
■patter from what side of the Boyne it came, have been the only test; 
my object being to present to the reader such a collection of Irish 
Ballads as would be valuable in a literary point of view, and which 
would not be altogether useless to the historian, or to the student oj 
our customs, our sufferings, or our character. — Ed.] 

Around the hills I ranged all day, 

'Twas a spring's day, not warm though fine; 
The sun himself became my clock, 
I marked him with attentive eye, 
And 6iiw him drooping in the sky. 



IRISH BALLADS. t 

Then downwards I did bend my way, 
For still, whate'er some wild ones say, 

The barren heath or mossy rock 

Can't furnish much whereon to dine. 
'Twas a spring's day, the birds were seen 

Peeping by stealth from bush and spray, 
The fields all round looked fresh and greeo, 

And then to hear the small birds sing, 

It was, in sooth, a cheering thing. 
From childhood among birds I've been, 

Catching their notes from brake and bough. 
To me their songs were ever dear ; 
But there was something o'er me here, 
In the soft air or sky so clear, 
Some spell or charm mixt with the scene, 

That gave thos"e songs new beauty now. 

Oh ! who, thought 1, would not be gay, 

Enjoying this sweet hour like me ; 
A man that moment crossed my way, 

Who showed small sign of gaiety. 
Down o'er his brow his hat he drew, 

I saw him turn and wipe his eyes ; 
That he in trouble was, I knew, 

But knew not whence it mhjht arise. 

" Good friend," said I, " what makes thee weep, 
What may your cross or trouble be ?" 
•'Trouble enough, I have," quoth he, 

" I poils my meals, it breaks my sleep, 
No chance on any side I see, 
My lot through lif is misery. 

Yet it is weak to yield to grief, 
For hours, for days, this cheek or eye 
Have seldom been a moment dry ; 
'Tis, as I say, a foolish thing 
To cry when tears no aid can bring ; 
Still do I think that when they fall, 
They ease this wretched head withal, 

And give the heavy heart relief. 



930 



"* Within that cozy little cot. 

That by my lady's gate appears; 
Sometimes contented with my lot, 
Sometimes at ease, and sometimes not ? 

I've lingered on for ten long year*. 
I laboured sorely through the day, 
And got but sorry, scanty pay ; 
My wife she was a straggler too, 
And did as much as wife could do ; 
Still did we find it hard indeed 
The children and ourselves to feed ; 
But yet we should have been content. 
As we stood clear of tax or rent; 
We had the little cottage free, 
For of the gate we kept the key. 



" And as the years all slowly fled, 
For many a guest that gate I spread 3 
For many a visitor came there, 

Fine gentle folks of each degree, 
Sea- officers with careless air, 

And rosy squires all blunt and fraft 
And captains and gay cornets too, 
In their rich dress of red or blue ; 
And such I still was glad to see, 
For they had a cheerful look of glee ; 
They bore no made-up look of grace, 
Where the bad heart belied the face; 
Nor gloomy airs nor bows demure— 
In short, they didn't teaze the poor, 
Nor bring them harm nor get them blains, 
Nor wrong them in religion's name'. 



*' Oh, 'twas for us a heavy day, 

When the squires and captains kept awzy, 

And the sleekheaded race came in, 

To prate of sanctity and sin ; 

To rave of darkness and of light, 

A.nd eat and drink from morn till night; 



IRISH BALLADS. 231 



To grunt and groan around my lady. 

To turn her cheerfulness to gall, 
To have vile stories ever ready, 

To set her mind against us all. 
'Twas in this way the canting clan 
Their work of godliness began. 

•Each child, each fool, about the hall, 

Got texts quite pat for every thing ; 

New birth — new light — conversion — call, 

Seemed ever in one's ears to ring. 
My wife and I kept from the place, 
We wanted not this extra grace ; 
We longed not for the saints' debating, 
We cared not for mere children's prating i 
Who settled points that, as we're told, 
Puzzled the wisest heads of old ; 
We wished in quietness to stay, 
And tread our own plain level way ; 
To leave new-fangled creeds untried, 
And die as those before us died. 



" My two poor boys at school had been, 
And for their time got on quite well : 
The master was a worthy man, 
One who much better days had seen ; 

But when misfortune on him fell, 
Beside the chapel on the green 
lie took a cottage, and began 
To train those children who could bring 
From week to week the smallest thing ; 
A very trifle satisfied him, 
And none of vhat he asked denied him. 

** My lady built a Sunday school, 

At least she lent her aid ; 
And there they fixt a solemn fool, 

Who groaned, and preached, and prayed. 
Perhaps 'tis wrong the name I gave, 
He was, I think, less fool than knave ; 



232 



He canted well, and soon stood high 

In favour in my lady's eye; 

She told her tenantry at large 

To give their children to his charge ; 

It cost the creatures many a tear, 

But they were forced to yield through few; 

What can a poor dependent do, 

With certain ruin full in view ; 

If even one murmuring word is spoken, 

Or one capricious order broken? 

" I sent my boys with heavy heart, 

Their chance withal to try ; 
I knew I played a guilty part, 

But what resource had I ? 
I knew their faith was placed in danger, 
By listening to this canting stranger; 
To me their ancient faith was dear, 
But if my lady chanced to hear 
One lingering growl, for me or mine 

There was no choice, no prospect left, 
But friendless in some ditch to pine, 

Of shelter, food, and work bereft ; 
This was what baulked me through the past 
And see to this 'tis come at last. 

" We were not long in finding out 
What the new teacher was about ; 

Of writing, sums, or figures, he 
Appeared to take but little care; 

His study was divinity. 
He'd scripture — scripture — every where, 

He crammed it in the rule of three ; 
He made it chime with tret and tare, 
The rule of three was not with him 

As with the world — the golden rule; 
He had a notion in his head 
That truth and godliness were dead ; 
He thought his pupil's faith burned diffi 

And he did call Ins little school 



IRISH BALLADS* 233 

By a strange name — 'twas, as T guess, 
A roaring ' howling wilderness, ' 
Where the great fiend might freely prowl, 
And pounce upon each ' bat and owl;' 
For so he styled those little sinners 
Who were in grace not e'en beginners. 

" He got this maggot in his brain, 
It bit him o'er and o'er again ; 
It urged him to his holy work, 
To tear the beast, the Pope, and Turk. 
Each urchin in his favour grew, 
Who soured him in this pious view ; 
The best boy's merit was but small, 
Unless he learned to twist St. Paul ; 
Or from his book had morsels ready 
To throw at the old Scarlet Lady ; 
For by this name did he presume 
To call the blessed Church of Rome. 
But they were in his chosen class. 
Who mocked the priest and staid from 
Who threw their parents' creed aside, 
And took My Lady for their guide. 
( )f these my eldest boy was one — 
I can't say how his change begun — 
But saw it soon — one evening he 
Spoke, as I thought, too flippantly 
Of holy things : I checked his tongue, 
But he would not be silent long; 
He growled, and in the cant of school 
Called me a superstitious fool ; 
And then he laughed all loud and gay, 

To see me for ihe moment stare : 
I stared indeed, and cursed the day 

That left him in the Swaddler's care. 
Next morn, more mischief to prevent, 
His brother and himself were sent 
To the old school upon the green, 
Where both of them ?t first had been; 



234 



I did not heed my danger then, 

Nor see the harm th;j.t I was doing ; 

But quarrel once with holy men, 

And soon they'll bring about your rails $ 

Bevenge is theirs, if touched or crost, 

At least I found so to my cost. 

" Ay, Sir ! before two days were gone 

My punishment was settled on . 

The holy teacher lost no time 

In blazoning forth my heinous crime ; 

Down to our door the steward came, 

And told me, in his lady's name, 

That though the snow was on the ground, 

Though chill and frosty was the air, 
By me new quarters must be found, 

To go at once I must prepare, 

For I could stop no longer there ; 
' I'm sorry for your loss,' quoth he 
(I thought he spoke it sneeringly), 
' But if you wish employment still, 

Or shelter from the wintry blast, 
Why, yield you to my lady's will, 

And she may pardon all that's past. 
Your best and surest way would be 

The teacher's favour to obtain ; 
Stick not so hard to Popery, 

But bring the youngsters back again; 
And with them let him take his way — 
What signifies it how they pray ? 
This you must do, and more than this, 
For things half done are done amiss ; 
The boys must change, nor they alone, 
A change must by yourself be shown. 
My lady bids you think with dread 
Of the sad life you've lately led : 
Up to the hall you must repair, 
Each evening at the hour of prayer, 
And bring your children and your wife, 
To hear betimes the words of life, 



IRISH BALLADS. 2k* 

And learn what priests have never taught, 

Or never dwelt on as they ought; 

By this, perhaps, you gain your end, 

You hold your place and keep youx frk-O'V 

This is my counsel, as I live, 

In friendship I this counsel give ; 

But if you, like a stubborn dunce, 

Will fling this good advice aside, 
Why in Heaven's name, then, be at once 

The comforts of starvation tried ; 
Go forth, and wish, perhaps too late, 
For the warm cottage at the gate.' 

" 'Then let starvation come,' said T, 
' Heaven in its hour will help the poor — 
We'll beg our way from door to door, 
And if no food we can procure, 

The worst that waits us is to die. 
But, oh ! it is not fair to try 
Or tempt a struggling man like me 
To practise vile hypocrisy. 
No ! let my lady's anger fall 
Upon me — I can bear it all : 
Still to my father's faith I'll keep, 
And take this boy, this poor stray sheep, 
From where the wolves grin greedily ' 



" 'Father, mistake me not,' said he, 
' I cannot, will not dwell with thee ; 
I may not walk upon thy path, 
When Heaven thus marks thee in its wra 
Why should I grope in darkness still, 
When it has been the Lord's good will 
To bless me with a ray of light, 
And make me sinless, pure and bright? 
From Satan's power I now stand free, 
From that and hell-born Popery ; 
To my good teacher I shall go, 
And he will be my friend, I know.' 



23G Boole of 

" The stripling rose, he reached his hat» 

In mute astonishment I sat. 

And saw him as, with saintly face. 

He led the steward from the place: 

No word of censure I let fall — 

I could not — but I looked it all. 

" They turned us out, on the road eido 

In an old shed we dwell : 
With food, with firing unsupplied ; 
Of clothes and bedding nearly bare, 
We shivering sit, and suffer there 
Much more than I could tell, 
And yet I feel I acted well ; 
* My father's faith I held secure — 
And though I'm shelterless and poor, 
I would not change that faith to buy 
All that these kingdoms could supply 
God be my friend 1" — " Amen 1" said I. 



LAMENT FOE THE SONS OF USNACH. 

BY SAMUEL FERGUSON, M.R.I. A. 

["Thenwastherecomanlnthe host ofUlster that could be found who 
would put the sons of Usnach to death, so loved were they of the peo- 
ple and nobles But in the house of Conor was one called Main!, 
Rough Hand, son of the King of Lochlin, and Xaisi had slain his father and 
two brothers, and he undertook to be their executioner. So the sons oi 
Usnach were there slain, and the men of Ulster, when they beheld their 
death, sent forth their heavy shouts of sorrow and lamentation. Then 
Vcirdre fell down beside their bodies, wailing and wet-ping, and she 
tore her haii' : n ! garments, and bestowed kisses on their lifeless lips, and. 
bitterly bemoaned them. And a grave was opened for them, and 
Ueirdre. standing by it, with her hair dishevelled, and shedding tear* 
abundantly, chanted their funeral song." *] 

The lions of the hill are gone, 
And I am left alone — alone — 

•Hibernian Nights' Entertainments, University Magazine, vol. U. 



IRISH BALLADS. 237 

Dig the grave both wide and deep, 
For I am 6ick, and fain would sleep i 

The falcons of the wood Ere flown, 
And I am left alone — alone — 
Dig the grave both deep and wide, 
And let us slumber side by side. 

The dragons of the rock are sleeping, 
Sleep that wakes not for our weeping 
Dig the grave, and make it ready, 
Lay me on my true-love's body. 

Lay their spears and bucklers bright 
By the warriors' sides aright ; 
Many a day the three before me 
On their linked bucklers bore me. 

Lay upon the low grave floor, 
'Neath each head, the blue claymorsu B 
Many a time the noble three 
Reddened these blue blades for mt. 

Lay the collars, as is meet, 
Of their greyhounds at their feet ; 
Many a time for me have they 
Brought the tall red deer to bay. 

In the falcon's jesses throw, 
Hook and arrow, line and bow ; 
Ne er again, by stream or plain, 
Shall the gentle woodsmen go. 

Sweet companions, ye were ever 

Harsh tu me, your sister, never ; 
Woods and wilds, and misty value*!. 
Wvp witb you as good's 



Oh . to hear my true love singing, 
Sweet as sound of trumpets ringing; 
Like the sway of ocean swelling 
Eolled his deep voice round our dwelling 

Oh ! to hear the echoes pealing 
Round our green and fairy sheelin*, 
When the three, with soaring chorus, 
Passed the silent skylark o'er us. 

Echo now, sleep, morn and even — 
Lark alone enchant the heaven ! — 
Ardan's lips are scant of breath, 
Naisi's tongue is cold in death. 

Stag, exult on glen and mountain — 
Salmon, leap from loch to fountain — 
Heron, in the free air warm ye — 
Usnach's sous no more will harm ye I 

Erin's stay no more you are, 
Rulers of the ridge of war ! 
Never more 'twill be your fate 
To keep the beam of battle straight ! 

Wo is me ! by fraud and wrong, 
Traitors false and tyrants strong, 
Fell clan Usnach, bought and sold, 
For Barach's feast and Conor's gold ! 

Wo to Eman, roof and wall ! — 

Wo to Red Branch, hearth and halli^. 

Tenfold wo and black dishonor 

To the foul and false clan Conor ! 

Dig the grave both wide and deep, 
Sick I am, and fain would sleep I 
Dig the grave and make it ready, 
Lay me on my true-love's body ! 



TBI8H BALLADS. 



THE PENAL DAYS. 

[" Tn Scotland what a work have the four-and-twenty letters to show 
for themselves ! The natural enemies of vice, and folly, and slavery; 
, the great sowers, hut the still greater weedcrs of the human soil." — 
' John Philpol ^urrare.] 

In that dark time of cruel wrong:, when on our coun- 
try's breast, 
A dreary load, a ruthless code, with wasting terrors 

prest — 
Our gentry stript of land and clan, sent exiles o'er the 

main, 
To turn the scales on foreign fields for foreign monarcha' 

gain— 
Our people trod like vermin down, all fenceless flung to 

sate 
Extortion, lust, and brutal whim, and rancorous bigot 

hate — 
Our priesthood tracked from cave to hut, like felons 

chased and lashed, 
And from their ministering hands the lifted chalice 

dashed ; 
In that black time of law-wrought crime, of stifling wo 

and thrall, 
There stood supreme one foul device, one engine worse 

than all. 

Him whom they wished to keep a slave, they sought to 
make a brute — 

They banned the light of heaven — they bade instruc- 
tion s voice be in«tp 

God's second priest — the Teacher — sent to feed men's 
mind with lore — 

They marked a price upon his head, as on the priest's 
before. 

Well — well they knew that never, face to face beneath 
the sky, 



Could tyranny and knowledge meet, but one of them 

should die : 
That lettered slaves will link their might untai tHeir 

murmurs grow 
To that imperious thunder-peal which despots quail to 

know ; 
That men who learn will learn their strength the weak- 

ness of their lords — 
Till all the bonds that gird them round are snapt like 

Sampson's cords. 
This well they knew, and called the power of ignorance 

to aid : 
So might, they deemed, an abject race of soulless serfs 

be made — 
When Irish memories, hopes, and thoughts, were wi- 
thered, branch and stem — 
A race of abject, soulless serfs, to hew and draw for 

them. 



Ah, God is good and nature strong — they let net thus 
decay 

The seeds that deep in Irish breasts of Irish feeling lay. 

Still sun and rain made emerald green the loveliest 
fields on earth, 

And gave the type of deathless hope, the little sham- 
rock, birth; 

Still faithful to their Holy Church, her direst straits 
among, 

To one another faithful still, the priests and people 
clung, 

And Christ was worshipped, and received with trem- 
bling haste and fear, 

In field and shed, with posted scouts to warn of blood- 
hounds near ; 

"Still, crouching 'neath the sheltering hedge, or stretched 
on mountain fern, 

The teacher and his pupils met, feloniously — to learn ; 

Still round the peasant's heart of hearts his darling 
music twined, 

A fount of Irish sobs or smiles in every note enshrined 



IRISH BALLADS. 9A i 

And still beside the smouldering turf were fond tradi. 

tions told 
Of heavenly saints and princely chiefs — the power and 

faith of old 

Deep lay the seeds, yet rankest weeds sprang mingled-. 

could they fail ? 
For what were freedom's blessed worth, if slavery 

wrought not bale ? 
As thrall, and want, and ignorance, still deep and deeper 

grew, 
What marvel weakness, gloom, and strife fell dark 

amongst us too, 
And servile thoughts, that measure not the inborn wealth 

of man — 
And servile cringe, and subterfuge to 'scape our master's 

ban 

And drunkenness— our sense of woe a little while to 

steep — 
And aimless feud, and murderous plot — oh, one could 

pause and weep ! 
'Mid all the darkness, faith in Heaven still shone, a 

saving ray, 
And Heaven o'er our redemption watched, and chose its 

own good day. 
Two men were sent us — onefor years, with Titan strength 

of soul, 
To beard our foes, to peal our wrongs, to band us and 

control. 
The other at a later time, on gentler mission came, 
To make our noblest glory spring from out our saddest 

shame 1 
On all our wondrous, upward course hath Heaven its 

finger set, 
And we — but, oh, my countrymen, there's much before 

us yet ! 

How sorrowful the useless powers our glorious Island 

yields — 
Our countless havens desolate, our waste of barren 

fields, 



242 BOOK OF 

The all unused mechanic might our rushing stream* 

afford, 
The buried treasures of our mines, our sea's unvalued 

hoard 1 
But, oh, there is one piteous waste whence all the rest 

have grown, 
One worst neglect, the mind of man left desert and 

unsown. 
Send Knowledge forth to scatter wide, and deep to cast 

its seeds, 
The nurse of energy and hope, of manly thoughts and 

deeds. 
Let it go forth : right soon will spring those forces in It* 

train 
That vanquish Nature's stubborn strength, that rifle 

earth and main — 
Itself a nobler harvest far than Autumn tints with 

gold, 
A higher wealth, a surer gain than wave and mine 

enfold. 
Let it go forth unstained, and purged from Pride's un- 
holy ieaven, 
With fearless forehead raised to Man, but humbly bent 

to Heaven ; 
Deep let it sink in Irish hearts the story of their isle, 
And waken thoughts of tenderest love, and burning 

wrath the while ; 
And press upon us, one by one, the fruits of English 

sway, 
And blend the wrongs of bygone times with this our fight 

to-day ; 
And show our Father's constancy by truest instinct led, 
To loathe and battle with the power that on their sub- 
stance fed ; 
Ai_d let it place beside our own the world's vast page, to 

tell 
That never lived the natiou yet could rule another well. 
Thus, thus our cause shall gather strength ; no feeling 

vague and blind, 
But stamped by passion on the heart, by reason on tha 

mind. 



IRISH BALLADS. 24i 

Let it go forth— a mightier foe to England's power than 

all 
The rifles of America — the armaments of Gaul ! 
It shall go forth, and wo to them that bar or thwart its 

way— 
Tis God's ov-. light — all Heavenly bright — we care not 

who says nay. 



CAROLAN AND BRIDGET CRUISE. 



BY SAMUEL LOVER. 

[It is related of Carolan, the Irish hard, that when deprived of sight, 
and after the lapse of twenty years, he recognized his first love by the 
touch of her hand. The lady's name was Bridget Cruise; and though 
not a pretty name, it deserves to be recorded, as belonging to tbe 
woman who could inspire such a passion.] 

" Troe love can ne'er forget $ 
Fondly as when we met, 
Dearest, I love thee yet, 

My darling one !" 
Thus sung a minstrel gay 
His sweet impassion 'd lay, 
Down by the ocean's spray 

At set of sun ; 
But wither'd was the minstrel's sig&& 
Morn to him was dark as night, 
Yet his heart was full of light ; 

As he thus his lay begun. 



" True love can ne'er forget 
Fondly as when we met, 
Dearest, I love thee yet, 
My darling one 1 



244 



« Long years are past and o'er, 
Since from this fatal shore, 
Cold hearts and cold winds bore 

My love from me." 
Scarcely the minstrel spoke, 
When quick, with flashing stroke, 
A boat's light oar the silence broke 

O'er the sea ; 

Soon upon her native strand 

Doth a lovely lady land, 

With the minstrel's love-taught hand 

Did o'er his wild harp run : 
' ' True love can ne'er forget ; 
Fondly as when we met, 
Dearest, I love thee yet, 

My darling one 1" 
Where the minstrel sat alone, 
There, that lady fair hath gone, 
Within his hand she placed her own, 

The bard dropp'd on his knee ; 

From his lips soft blessings came, 
He kiss'd her hand with truest flame, 
In trembling tones he named — her name 

Though he could not see ; 
But oh ! — the touch the bard could teil 
Of that dear hand, remember'd well, 
Ah ! — by many a secret spell 

Can true love find her own I 
For true love can ne'er forget t 
Fondly as when they met i 
He loved his lady yet, 

His darling one 



'LkiM, Hl^EAMS. 



;T MRS. DOWNING. 



[This poem is taken from a volume entitled -'Scraps from th« 
M mntains, by Christabel," published in Dublin in 1840. It contains 
manj- beautiful pieces, in which Mrs. Downing has succeeded in 
uniting much of the grace and harmony of Mrs. Hemans, to the ten- 
derness and passion of L. E. L. What is still better, they are the- 
re aghly Irish ic sentiment and expression.] 



The streams, the dancing streams, 

How they roll and shine ! 
Like youth's fairest dreams, 

When youth is most divine; 
Clearness where their bed is, 

'Mid pebbles in glossy ranks, 
Brightness on their eddies, 

Blossoms on their banks. 

Look within the valley, 

Many a charm is there : 
The winding shaded alley, 

The woodbine glist'ning fair. 
The berries' crimson flush, 

The wild birds' cadence low, 
But chief of all, the gush 

Of the streamlet's singing fie®; 

Stand beneath the mountains^ 

And down each craggy gide. 
From their secret founta. 1. , 

See lines of silver glide — 
Mark how the ripples fling 

Their sparkles round, and aaj 
If there is anything 

More beautiful than they 



last in night's deep hushing, 

The season time of dreams, 
What are these come rushing ? 

The troubled, sleepless stream* 8 
Now their waters flashing, 

Like starry-spangled hairs — 
Rolling, bounding, dashing — 

What music like to theirs ? 



Oh ! in the sheltered glen, 

Or on the hill side fair, 
When spring flowers bloom, or wheE 

The summer birds are there 
In all that we may see, 

'Neath morn's or evening's beams, 
Can aught in nature be 

More lovely than the streams ? 



IRISH MARY. 



BY JOHN BANIM. 



Far away from Erin's strand, 

And valleys wide and sounding waters, 
Still she is, in every land, 

One of Erin's real daughters : 
Oh ! to meet her here is Tike 

A dream of home and natal mountain. 
On our hearts their voices strike — 

We hear the gushing of their fountains! 
Yes ! our Irish Mary dear! 

Our own, our real Irish Mary ! 
A flower of home, fresh blooming come, 

Art thou to us our Irish Mary I 



IRISH BALLADS. 

Round about us Here we see 

Bright eyes like hers, and sunny faces, 
Charming all ! — if all were free 

Of foreign airs, of borrowed graces. 
Mary's eye it flashes truth ! 

And Mary's spirit, Mary's nature, 
"Irish Lady," fresh in youth, 

Have beamed o'er every look and feature S 
Yes \ our Irish Mary dear ! 

When La Tournure doth make us weary, 
We have you, to turn unto 

For native grace, our Irish Mary. 

Sighs of home ! — her Erin's songs 

O'er all their songs we love to listen ; 
Tears of home ! — her Erin's wrongs 

Subdue our kindred eyes to glisten ! 
Oh I should woe to gloom consign 

The clear fire-side of love and honour, 
You will see a holier sign 

Of Irish Mary bright upon her 1 
Yes ! our Irish Mary dear 

Will light that home, though e'er so dreary. 
Shining still o'er clouds of ill, 

Sweet star of life, our Irish Mary ! 



8« 



THE LAST ERIENDS. 

BY FRANCES BROWN. 

[One of the United Irishmen, who lately returned to his countr} . 
after many years of exile, being asked what had induced him to re 
visit Ireland when all his friends were gone, he answered, " I camt 
back to see the mountains."] 

I came to my country, but not with the hope 

That brightened my youth like the cloud-lighting bow 

Eor the region of soul that seemed mighty to cope 
With time and with fortune, had fled from me now ; 



248 BOOK OK 

And love, that illumined my wanderings of yore, 
Hath perished, and left but a weary regret 

For the star that can rise on my midnight no more— 
But the hills of my country they welcome me yet 1 

The hue of their verdure was fresh with me still, 

When my path was afar by the Tanais' lone track ; 
From the wide-spreading deserts and ruins, that fill 

The land of old story, they summon el me back ; 
They rose on my di'eams through the shades of the we 4, 

They breathed upon saiids which the dew never weft, 
For the echoes were hushed in the home 1 loved b..st — . 

But I knew that the mountains would welcome ma 
yetl 

The dust of my kindred is scattered afar, 

They lie in the desert, the wild, and the wave, 
For serving the strangers through wandering and war, 

The isle of their mem.iry could grant them no grave. 
And I, I return with the memory of years, 

Whose hope rose so high though in sorrow it set ; 
They have left on my soul but the trace of their tears— 

But our mountains remember their promises yet I 

Oh ! where are the brave hearts that bounded of old, 

And where are the laces my childhood hath seen ? 
For fair brows are furrowed, and hearts have grown 
cold 

But our streams are still bright, and our hills are still 
green ; 
Ay, green as they rose to the eyes of my youth, 

VVhen brothers in heart in their shadows we met; 
And the hills have no memory of sorrow or death, 

For their summits are sacred to liberty yet! 

like ocean retiring, the morning mists now 

Roll back from the mountains that girdle our land ; 

And sunlight encircles each heath-covered brow 
For which time had no furrow and tyrants no bran.l ; 



IRISH BALLADS. 249 

Oh, thus let it be with the hearts of the isle. 
Efface the dark seal that oppression hath let; 

Give back the lost glory again to the soil, 
For the hills of my country remember it yet • 



THE IRISH EXILES. 

A CHRISTMAS CAROL. 
BT MARTIN MAC DERMOTT. 

When round the festive Christmas board, or by the 

Christmas hearth, 
That glorious mingled draught is pour'd — wine, melody, 

and mirth ! 
When friends long absent tell, low-toned, their joys and 

sorrows o'er, 
And hand grasps hand, and eyelids fill, and lips meet 

lips once more — 
Oh ! in that hour 'twere kindly done, some woman's 

voice would say — 
" Forget not those who're sad to-night — poor exiles, far 

away !" 

Alas, for them ! this morning's sun saw many a moist 

eye pour 
Its gushing love, with longings vain, the waste Atlantic 

o'er, 
And when he turned his lion-eye this ev'ning from the 

West, 
The Indian shores were lined with those who watched 

his couched crest ; 
But not to share his glory, then, or gladden in his ray, 
They bent their gaze upon his path — those exiles, far 

away I 



S50 BOOK OP 

It was— oh! how the heart will cheat! hecause thej 

thought, beyond 
His glowing couch lay that Green Isle of which theii 

hearts were fond ; 
And fancy brought old scenes of home into each welling 

eye, 
And through each breast pour'd many a thought that 

filled it like a sigh ! 
'Twas then — 'twas then, all warm with love, they knelt 

them down to pray 
For Irish homes and kith and kin — poor exiles far 

away! 

And then the mother blest her son, the lover blest the 

maid, 
And then the soldier was a child, and wept the whilst 

he prayed, 
And then the student's pallid cheek flushed red as sum- 

mer rose, 
And patriot souls forgot their grief to weep for Erin'a 

woes; 
And, oh ! but then warm vows were breathed, that come 

what might or may, 
They'd right the suffering isle they loved— those exiles, 

far away ! 

And some there were around the board, like loving bro- 
thers myfc. 

The few and fond and joyous hearts that never can for- 
get; 

They pledged—" The girls we left at home, God bless 
them !" and they gave, 

" The memory of our absent Iriends, the tender and the 
brave !." 

Then up, erect, with nine times nine— hip, hip, hip- 
hurrah ! 

Drank—" 6n)») X^^M 3<*l 5<> b\i&$\"* those exilet 
far away. 

» Erin slantha gal go bragh. 



IRISH BALLADS. 251 

Then, oh ! to hear the sweet old strains of Irish music 

rise, 
Like gushing memories of home, beneath far foreign 

skies, 
Beneath the spreading calabash, beneath the trellised 

vine, 
The bright Italian myrtle bower, or dark Canadian 

pine — 
Oh I don't these old familiar tones — now sad, and now 

so gay- 
Speak out your very, very hearts — poor exiles, far 

away ! 



But, Heavens ! how many sleep afar, all heedless of 

these strains — 
Tired wanderers ! who sought repose through Europe's 

battle plains — 
In strong, fierce, headlong fight thay fell — as ships go 

down in storms — 
They fell — and human whirlwinds swept across their 

shattered forms 1 
No shroud, but glory, wrapt them round ; nor pray'r 

nor tear had they — 
Save the wandering winds and the heavy clouds — poor 

exiles far away 1 



And might the singer claim a sigh, he, too, could tell 

how tost 
Upon the stranger's dreary shore, his heart's best hopes 

were lost — 
How he, too, pined, to hear the tones of friendship greet 

his ear, 
And pined, to walk the river side, to youthful musing 

dear, 
And pined, with yearning silent love, amongst his own 

to stay — 
Alas 1 it is so sad to be an exile, fai away t 



252 BOOK OF 

Then, oh ! when round the Christmas board, or by tbe 

Christmas hearth, 
That glorious mingled draught is pronred — wine, melody, 

and mirth 1 
When friends long absent tell, low-toned, their joys ar.^ 

sorrows o'er, 
And hand grasps hand, and eye-lids fill, and lips meet 

lips once more — 
In that bright hour, perhaos — perhaps, some woman'i 

voice would say — 
1 * Think — think on those who weep to-night, poor esijig?, 

&raw*yl 



/ 



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A WORLD LEADER IN COLLECTIONS PRESERVATION 

1 1 1 Thomson Park Drive 
Cranberry Township, PA 16066 
(724)779-2111 



